Happy Anniversary, Mr Jane
by Inder
Summary: Ten years after Jane joined the CBI, the team investigates a Red John case that is specifically targeted at him. Jane's reaction to the murders leaves him in the hospital psychologically and physically damaged, and Lisbon is the only one he will let near enough to help him. T for language, violence, and gore; though this is based off of a Cop drama, so...
1. The Gift

**Author's Note: This story is not going to be kind to many of the characters involved. It will root through the psyches of both Jane and Lisbon and will explore a combination of their canon and non-canon histories. If I make any grave or slightly annoying factual errors concerning timelines or plot, go ahead and PM me. I'll fix what I can as long as it doesn't compromise the story I'm creating. If you're not into mild Jisbon, I fear Chapter Three will be as far as you will want to go.**

* * *

Patrick Jane woke up. He was on the couch in the CBI and Lisbon was standing over him.

"C'mon Jane, we got a murder to go to."

He lifted his eyebrow at her. She was holding back information.

"Where?"

"Malibu."

"What?"

"Double homicide, mother and daughter."

"Who?"

"Are you teaching kids to write?" she snapped testily.

"No. Any suspects?"

"Yes. Well, no. Confirmed perp." She was still being evasive. And refused to meet his gaze. That could only mean one thing. He sat up and forced her to meet his eyes.

"Red John."

"Yes." She spun quickly and headed for the door. "Your hair's sticking up on the right."

He stood, stretched, and finger combed the hair back into place using a reflection on the window behind the couch. Patting his pockets to check for his phone, he followed Lisbon out the door.

He was miffed slightly. Although the plane ride was uneventful, Lisbon had refused to say more than a few sentences to him. It miffed him.

She started to act the smallest bit nervous, even turning to him at one point during the flight to say something and then turned away.

Lisbon was still being evasive when they turned off the city streets into the neighborhoods. She talked about the previous case, asking him to go back over what exactly had been his reasoning behind his initial decision on who the killer was. It had been a petty case as usual, dead husband with a mistress, a wife with her own lover, a huge missing fortune, and four layers of subterfuge before it became obvious enough for the jury.

Her knuckles suddenly whitened as she gripped the wheel harder.

Why?

He looked up.

_ "Daddy, can I have a pony for Christmas?"_

_ In the rear-view mirror he sees her: pouty lips, puppy eyes, hands balled in pleading hands under her chin._

_ He smiles. "Let me guess? A white, shaggy one with light brown spots from a specific set of islands that start with A and C?"_

_ She squeals "Yes, please!"_

_ "Mommy has been reading _Misty _to you again, hasn't she?"_

_ She nods emphatically. _

_ "I'll talk to Mommy about it."_

A hand touched his.

"You alright?" Lisbon looked genuinely concerned.

His voice stuck as he tried to answer, "Yes."

He had driven his daughter home through that intersection almost every day that he picked her up from school.

Lisbon turned the car down an eerily familiar street.

His house, where his life had started and ended, sat fourth in on the left side of the road.

The car drew even with it and turned right, pulling into the end of the driveway to face a house and yard swarming with police officers and CSIs.

"You didn't tell me…" his voice trailed off.

"I'm sorry, Jane."

He stepped out of the car and approached the house. Van Pelt, Rigsby, and Cho stood to the side, having already been into the house; they looked ill and would not look over at him.

This investigation was making him more and more nervous as every minute passed.

The sheriff walked up, nodded at Lisbon, but turned to him. "Patrick Jane? I suggest that you do not participate in this investigation."

He rocked back on his heels. "And what? Miss all the fun?" He smirked.

The sheriff's expression did not change. He stood for a moment, turned, and walked away muttering, "I told you not to."

He turned to Lisbon and smiled, attempting to ooze charm instead of the anxiety that burned in him.

"You're not going to tell me I shouldn't go, are you?"

"If I did would it stop you?"

"Should it?"

"Yes."

He leaned in. "To tell you the truth, Lisbon, I'm terrified at what I'll find in there." He smiled and nodded at Cho, who had looked over at him. "However, I feel compelled to see what it is that he's done. To see if there are any clues to who he is, where he is."

He walked through the open door. Sidestepping an exiting CSI, he stopped in a carbon copy of his own foyer. There was a hallway past a window into a small outdoor space, then a flight of stairs. He stopped at the top, his eyes closed.

"Lisbon."

"Yes?"

"Are the bodies in a room at the end of the hall?"

"Yes."

"Is– Is there a…" He swallowed and opened his eyes.

Turning, he started down the hallway. He stopped.

There was a note taped to the door, at eye level, with a strip of inch and a half by half inch masking tape.

He forced his feet to move again.

_His back hurts from the studio chairs._

No, he was perfectly fine. Well, his back was.

_ The lights are low in the hall. She always keeps the lights like this when he's coming home. He's tripped over too many toys to count with the lights out._

No, what's happening to him? The lights are all on.

_ The hall is perfectly silent except for his footsteps on the carpet and heart racing in his ears. He is alone except for the note and whatever lay behind the door._

He'd stopped walking. The steps he heard were not his own, but Lisbon's. She placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Jane, you don't have to go there. You can stop here, turn around, Van Pelt will take you back to the hotel, and you can rest. You don't have to go back to that night." Her voice was soft.

"I have to go in there. This is for me, I know it. And Lisbon?"

"Yes?"

"I've been back in that day since the intersection."

He swallowed again and moved toward the door.

* * *

Dear Mr. Jane:

Happy Anniversary! It has been eleven years to the day since you killed your beautiful wife and child with those slanderous words of yours. You know I can't meet you in person for this momentous occasion, but I left you a present to remind you of our special day.

* * *

He pulled the note from the door, accidentally crushing it in his left hand. With a shaking hand, he pushed the door open.

On the bed were a woman and her daughter. The child, only seven or eight, had curly hair, he could see that. He stepped closer. She had not been asleep. Her face was twisted in terror and pain.

He collapsed.


	2. Waking Up

**AN: In this chapter I use _italics_ to suggest writing, rather than memory, since I couldn't figure out how to keep the indentations I had originally put in. ****To stem any comments about plot points, Rigsby and Van Pelt are on a platonic dinner date. If I hear anything about it, I'll know you didn't read this ;)**

* * *

Patrick Jane woke up. Lisbon was sitting in a nearby chair, her chin on her collar bones, dozing lightly. He shifted his shoulders and balled his fists. Or tried to.

The pressure on his right index finger belonged to a clip and there was a pinch in the back of his left forearm. He lifted his arm and saw an IV shunt taped down, the line running to a bag on a machine that made soft periodic humming sounds. The bag contained a clear fluid, but he couldn't read the label.

He inhaled deeply and blinked at the rush of oxygen that caused stars to dance in front of his eyes. Turning his head slightly, he felt the touch of the plastic tubing that had brought the oxygen.

That was definitely odd.

He closed his eyes, relaxing, and then opened them again. Lisbon hated falling asleep in chairs. He opened his mouth to call her name, but winced at the pain in his throat. Instead, he settled for a short grunt.

Lisbon stirred abruptly, and ground her palms against her eyes.

He smiled and watched her as she came fully awake.

She scanned the room and leaned back. Suddenly, she shot forward in her seat and met his eyes. Her hands clapped to her mouth and she shook with a sudden sob.

"Jane! Oh my God, Jane!" she said, her voice tight.

He mimed writing.

"Oh! Gimme a second."

She rose and looked around rapidly. She made a short dash to the counter with the sink and pulled a handful of paper towels from the dispenser. She turned back, her hand rummaging in a pocket for a pen. Finding one, she laid both on the table used for meals and swung that around, aligning it over his lap.

He looked up at her and smiled again, nodding his thanks.

There were tears on her face, but she smiled back.

_Hello Lisbon._

"Hi, Jane." She choked her words out around tears. She pulled her chair close to the bed so she could read his writing.

_Is everything all right?_

"Basically."

He lifted and eyebrow. Why was she being so evasive today?

"We've been given time off. The murders were targeted at us so they've let a different team take care of it. We're still on full pay, though."

_Where is everybody?_

"Van Pelt and Rigsby are in Napa and Cho is home. I've been here."

_Why did Van Pelt and Rigsby leave so quickly? Are they just there for the day? Are we in Sacramento?_

"Day? What do you mean by-" Her eyes widened. "Oh. Jane, you've been in a coma for nearly four weeks."

"What?!" He winced and grabbed his throat.

_What? Four weeks? Why?_

His hand flashed so quickly across the paper that the words were barely squiggles evocative of the letters that formed them.

"The doctors think you caused your brain to shut down in order to protect yourself from psychological trauma after seeing the bodies. They said you'd come out if you were ready." She looked relieved but scared at the same time.

_Did something happen to me while I was out?_

"No." He saw the lie on her face. If he did not work in a field that dealt with death daily he would not have been able to decipher the mix of emotions that fought there.

_How many times did I die?_

"Three."

He lay back against the pillow and ran his fingers through his hair. There was not a bit of the hair gel he had put in the morning of the investigation. In fact, his hair felt newly shampooed, as if it had been washed that morning.

After a moment he sat up again and held her hand, which she had set on the edge of his bed.

_I'm sorry. Thank you for staying here with me the whole time._

"How-?"

He started writing before she could finish.

_You look exhausted. And there is a cot right there._

He pointed to a cot near the end of the bed.

She smiled and wiped her eyes with her free hand.

_May I ask? Did the doctors say why I died?_

"They said it appeared you gave up. That you wanted to go."

He closed his eyes and squeezed her hand.

_Angela and Charlotte were there. I tried to follow them._

"I figured that might have been the case."

_How long do you have off?_

"Until we feel psychologically ready. The DA specified that since the murder was targeted at a member of our team and since you reacted to it in a way that mentally compromised all of us, we will have time off to recover until we feel better."

He shifted his hips slightly and curled his lip.

_Am I wearing a diaper?_

Lisbon tried to hide a small smile with her hand.

"I was wondering when you'd ask. Yes, all coma patients do. It's how they deal with _things_." She waved a hand emphatically.

He shuddered. He could not remember ever having felt so disgustingly unclean.

_Never grow old._

She turned her head away for a moment and then looked back at him, the traces of the smile still heavy around her eyes.

"I'll call a nurse to tell them you've woken up. And so you can _change_." She touched her nose with the side of a finger, in a vague attempt to hide another grin.

_Tell me, are you just so happy to see me, or do you actually take pleasure in the fact that I have been reduced to wearing a diaper? Because if you do there is going to be serious retribution._

He did not yet know what said retribution would be, but it would be extensive.

"Oh, no. It has nothing to do with the fact that you're wearing such undignified apparel." She was lying. It was beyond obvious. Setting the pen down, he crossed his arms and glowered at her.

There would be retribution.

She pulled her hand from his and stood. She walked to the door, pulled it open, and called, "Nurse!"

From the floor beyond the door came a muffled reply.

"He's awake!" The joy in Lisbon's shout was the slightest bit forced, since the joy was no longer quite as new.

The nurse's response was more excited this time.

Lisbon moved back around the bed and sat in her chair, swinging the table around so it looked like she had been the one writing.

Two people entered the room. One was a nurse, the other, judging by her outfit was a doctor.

"Good morning, Patrick. Well, afternoon, truthfully," the doctor said.

He glanced at Lisbon, who shrugged at the doctor's use of his first name.

"You've been a rather interesting coma patient over the last month." The doctor stopped and looked at Lisbon. "He knows about-"

She cut the doctor off. "Yes, we talked for a moment before I called you."

The doctor nodded.

"Understandable. Patrick, I need to check a couple of things before I let you get cleaned up. I also need to take out your IV. It will scar if we don't pull it out today. Is that all right?"

He nodded.

"Can you speak?"

He shook his head and touched his throat.

"Ah, right. I was wondering if you would feel that. You fought the feeding tube on a couple occasions. It scratched your throat and epiglottis, the flap that covers the opening of your larynx. We'll get you something for that as soon as possible."

When the tests were done, the doctor stepped back.

"I assume you will want to shower, change into a clean gown, and your own undergarments?"

He nodded again.

"Danni will remove your IV and help you with getting clean."

The nurse stepped into the doctor's place as the other woman left the room.

"This is going to feel a little weird." Danni undid the drip line and removed the tape that held the shunt down to his arm. The nurse turned, picked up a cotton ball with tape already on it, and pressed it over the point where the needle went into the skin. She grabbed the body of the shunt and pulled it out. Moving quickly, she fastened the cotton tightly to his arm.

Danni moved to the cardiac monitor and pressed a button. She then walked around the bed and pulled off the finger clip

Jane moved to get up.

"Not yet, there's still a catheter to deal with."

He fell back against the pillow, a tormented look on his face.

Lisbon stood and pulled out her phone. "Honey, I'm going to call the rest of the team and tell them you're awake. Wayne and Grace will probably be here in an hour and a half. I'll tell Kim to wait an hour before coming so you can get clean."

He looked up at her. She had called him Honey.

"I won't tell them about this." Her voice was soft and reassuring.

He nodded and watched her leave.

* * *

**I know I didn't say this after the first chapter; I didn't want to spoil the suspense. Please Review? Feedback will help me work through writers' block if I have it and will help me to know if I'm deviating too far from character.**

**And positive feedback never hurts :)**


	3. Something Strange

**AN:** **I can't promise that this will be the shortest chapter. It should be, but I have plans for some from Jane's POV that may be the around the same length. I'll have Chapter 4 up as soon as I'm finished with it.**

* * *

Lisbon closed her phone. She had only needed to make two calls. Cho had been ecstatic as Cho could be, which was saying a lot, since he had found his desk drawers filled with pineapple chunks when they had gone in to lock up their belongings before the forced sabbatical. He could have been angrier, she realized. At least Jane had been kind enough to line the drawers with plastic in a way that allowed for the easy cleaning of the mess. Jane had also put all of the files in clearly labeled bankers' boxes in his attic lair.

She had chosen to call Rigsby instead of Van Pelt, simply because she valued her hearing. Rigsby certainly had been elated, but her ears still rang slightly from the other woman's shriek of joy, despite the fact that Van Pelt had been no where near the phone.

A strange sound caught her ear. The shower in Jane's room had been on for the last half hour, but this was the first time she had heard the pattern of the water change, now, as if there was a body moving about in it.

That was definitely odd.


	4. The Second Gift

**AN: Hello again All, my predictions about changes to 1, 2, & 3 were unfounded once I went back and read them. I realize that many of you were enjoying my story, but as I explained in the Apology in the previous chapter, I decided to change what I had written. Hopefully you like what I've done here and are willing to keep reading. One note on reading this, however, much of the chapter will remain the same, but there are definite changes. If you are like me, who skims the familiar and just looks for the different, I suggest, no matter how much you may want to skim, that you read closely, since I've made some subtle changes.**

* * *

A quarter hour later, Danni stepped out of the room.

"He's better, but grouchy." Danni looked…flustered. "That fiancée of yours is really quite sensitive about his body. Getting him clean was a lot less work when he was unconscious."

"That's true," conceded Lisbon.

"I must admit," continued the nurse, "I know I've said it before, but he's really quite well endowed."

Lisbon fixed the other woman with a hard glare.

The nurse coughed. "I'll be back with the analgesic for his throat." She turned and walked away.

Lisbon went through the now-open door and sat back in her chair.

Jane was sitting up against his pillows, his arms crossed almost protectively over his chest, staring into nothing, his mask of cool collectedness drawn up tightly.

He looked at her and mimed writing again, but pointed at the stack of papers on the table, his head cocked to the side and raised a questioning eyebrow. The top piece on which he had been writing was gone.

"The paper is in my pocket. Do you want to write?"

He shook his head no, folded his arms, and went back to staring.

Lisbon tried not to be annoyed with his pouting. What had the nurse said that had bothered him so much? Or was it just that he was humiliated by the cleaning process?

No, she knew him too well. He wasn't humiliated. When that happened, he started talking and made a point of putting the person that had humiliated him in their place.

She didn't quite like Nurse Danni. The woman was too interested in her sexual life with Jane. A fascination which stemmed from the fact that the only way Lisbon had been allowed to stay by his side the whole time was to pretend that they were engaged. There was just something weird she could sense about that woman.

Something the nurse had actually said flashed into her mind. Something about Jane's physiology.

Of course she had had dreams and fantasies about the man. Only a few because she had managed to remind herself what he was most times, a widower and a coworker. Most times. After having worked with the man for a decade… could it really have been so long?... she no longer found him blisteringly annoying. His different faces and moods were like a book to her now. Actually, she found him rather endearing.

Attractive, attraction: Those were not words she would allow herself to use in conjunction to the man laying in the bed in front of her. For other women, those words applied to him.

So, she could not really blame the nurse; there was not a woman she knew that met Jane and came away unaffected by his looks and charm. In fact, even many of the homosexual women they had met during their ten years of investigation were affected by him.

Her thoughts drifted to another subject that had occupied her mind for a few months now.

Jane and Lorelei.

The six months he had been gone had been some of the most confusing months of her life. She realized that he hadn't spent the whole time with her, but he had refused to call her or reach out.

It had physically hurt her when Jane hadn't denied sleeping with the whore of the man that had killed his family. When he had kissed her, the fury and pain that had washed through her had made her yell things at him that she had only partially regretted.

The feelings that had run through her, that still filled her when she thought of the kiss, burned of hurt, betrayal, and jealousy.

She wasn't sure what had actually made her hurt so much. Was it the fact that he had buckled to the whims of Red John? Or was it something more personal, something she refused to acknowledge because Jane worked for her?

The name of the emotion she held for him surfaced in her mind, but she attacked it, forcing it to the farthest corners.

She sat quietly, making her mind go blank as she watched Jane, a practice she had found that actually let her rest and recover while fulfilling the duty she felt she had to watch over him while he was in the coma, since she felt it was her fault for taking him to the crime scene. Her method had actually saved his life the second time he had died.

The machines hooked up to him to monitor life signs had failed that second time. She had seen the life go out of his body as one great spasmodic gasp and the little color his skin had held fled almost immediately. When the cardiac monitor didn't go off, she tore down the hall, screaming for help, more terror in her at that moment than at any other point during her tenure as an officer.

The doctors had his heart restarted in just under ten minutes and had his lungs working in eleven.

She had actually cried herself to sleep for the first time since before her father killed himself.

Her phone vibrated twice. She jumped violently in response, and was surprised to see that Jane didn't so much as blink at her motion. She pulled out her phone, checked the texts and looked up.

"Jane," she said, "Cho, Rigsby, and Van Pelt are all here in the parking lot. They want to know if you are ready to see them."

He shrugged.

"I'll take that as a yes, then," she said, typing in the response text. "But you better make it worth their whiles. Apparently Rigsby drove so fast he only avoided getting a ticket by showing his badge to an officer at a stoplight. The officer had to call in their plate number so they wouldn't get pulled over."

They continued to sit in silence for a short while until three sets of footsteps approached the door. Jane stirred becoming more alive looking.

When the three came in, Jane spread his arms and smiled, both of his gestures wide and welcoming.

"Jane! You're alive!" cried Van Pelt "You don't know how much you've scared us!"

He gave her a look that said, Are you sure? and then tapped his temple. She shot back a slightly exasperated face.

Cho stepped forward then, and dropped a plastic bag of moldy pineapple chunks on Jane's lap. Jane shot him a mischievous smile.

Cho pursed his lips slightly.

"Morning, Van Winkle."

Jane laughed silently and pointed back at him. He picked the bag up gingerly and set it on the table over the pile of papers.

Van Pelt's face had become worried.

"Jane, can you talk?"

He shook his head and touched his throat.

She looked confused.

He held up four fingers.

"Charades? Really?" Those were the first words Rigsby had spoken around Jane in over a week.

Noticing a strange shift in Rigsby's character, Lisbon had questioned him about it. He told her that Jane's collapse was one of the most disturbing things he had ever seen. Secretly, he had told her, Jane was one of the strongest people he knew, and to see him cut so low made Rigsby question his own strength. Having Ben had made him only want to be stronger than he thought he was in order to protect his son, and it scared him.

Jane nodded earnestly.

He pointed to his eye.

"Eye? I," said Cho.

Jane touched his nose and then began air boxing.

"Punched," offered Rigsby, who at a head shake, amended his statement to: "Fight?"

Another nose touch.

He mimed spooning food into his mouth.

"Eating?" asked Van Pelt.

He touched next to his nose to sign for a 'not quite.'

Lisbon sighted. "I'm sorry, Jane. He fought his feeding tube on a couple of occasions. It scratched his epiglottis. The nurse is coming with an analgesic so it stops hurting and he can start talking to us."

Jane pouted.

"I'm sorry Jane, it was just taking too long. I don't want you to get over tired," she explained.

Just at that moment Nurse Danni returned with the dose of oral analgesic.

"Can I ask you to step out for a moment?" the nurse asked.

Lisbon nodded. "We'll be right be right back, Jane."

He sighed.

The four stepped into the hallway.

Lisbon scraped the hair away from her forehead.

"I'm sorry. He was more talkative earlier. I don't know what's wrong with him."

Cho waved it off. "He just woke up from a coma. There are dreams when a person is in a coma. He may just be processing them.

Lisbon nodded. "Why don't you three go get something from the vending machine? Go around the corner, down the hall, then turn left. The machines are there. Could-" She felt for her wallet, but didn't find it. "Would one of you mind getting me something? I'll pay you-"

"It's okay. I'll get it." Rigsby said gently.

"Thank you."

He nodded and they left.

Shaking her head, she brushed her hands over her pockets again, wondering why she didn't have her wallet. As she passed her hands around her hips, her left one caught on her gun.

Even if it didn't make any sense, since she was on leave, she had worn her gun every day. It was a part of her. As Jane had once pointed out, she was poster child for the NRA.

She also had a deep-set fear that Red John might make an attempt on Jane's life.

* * *

Twenty minutes passed. Lisbon started pacing. Twenty minutes was too long for giving liquid medicine.

Something was beyond wrong. All of her warning instincts were going off. She had never known them to lie. They had saved her and her brother's lives many times when their father had fallen into one of his drunken rages.

Although her impressions about suspects sometimes weren't correct, when she got these warnings, she knew there was going to be danger.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and pressed redial.

"Rigs, I may need backup."

"Back up?!"

"How quick can you get here? Do you have your guns?"

"Less than a minute– " there was a partially muted mumble from the phone's speakers. "We all have them."

"Good. I'm putting you on speaker so you can hear what's happening. Put your phone on speaker, too. You have to stay quiet." She pushed the phone into her jacket pocket without ending the call and drew her gun.

Lisbon opened the door slowly and stepped into the room.

Nurse Danni's scrub jacket was off and blood flecked the white wife-beater she was wearing. She had a knife in her hands, and was slowly carving into Jane's skin, leaving bloody trails across his torso.

But why wasn't he fighting back?

Then she saw why. His hands and feet were tied down with latex medical tubing and cloth bandages. Another band of cloth formed a gag tied firmly in his mouth, prevented him from calling for help.

She raised her gun, horrified, and said a little over-loud, "You are under arrest for the torture of Patrick Jane."

There was a jumble of noise from the phone in her pocket.

The nurse did not rise, but pulled the knife from the cut she had just made. "I don't really feel like it."

The nurse made another inch-long cut on Jane's chest.

The other three clattered into the room.

Lisbon cocked the gun and stepped closer.

"Step away from the bed!"

"No."

"You are resisting arrest!"

"I'm well aware of that."

Lisbon adjusted her grip on the gun. If she shot the woman– But no, if she did, she risked the bullet passing through her and hitting Jane.

The woman dug her knife into Jane again, eliciting an awful moan from him.

Lisbon snarled, all fear of hurting him gone, she would get rid of this woman. She shot once, the bullet ripping through the woman's calf.

Danni jerked away from him, collapsing to the floor, her knife tearing through Jane's flesh, leaving a six-inch-long furrow across his belly, drawing a muffled scream of pain from his throat that caused Lisbon's blood to ice over.

Rigsby and Cho jumped in to help Lisbon handcuff woman, now flailing on the floor.

The knife, which threw small drops of Jane's blood into the air, kept flashing at Lisbon's face.

She lunged back, ducking behind Rigsby's arm as he in turn dove forward. His hand latched around the blade and he wrenched it from the woman's hand. Cho hit her once, subduing her.

Rigsby flipped her over roughly and bent her arms back, fixing a set of handcuffs firmly around her wrists.

Cho stood and hauled her up.

"Look!" Van Pelt was pointing a trembling hand at the woman's chest.

On the inside curve of her left breast was a tattoo of a smiley face. It was red, and trails of the color parted with the main body of the tattoo and followed the contours of the flesh as if they had dripped there.

Red John.

What was the serial killer's mark doing on this woman?

Lisbon stepped overly close to the nurse and spoke, her voice a near-snarl.

"Who are you?"

"Danniella Thorguil."

"Not what I meant. Why do you have that tattoo? Do you know what it means?"

"Ahh… there you go. More specific. I work for Red John."

"Are you actually a nurse, or are you just a plant?"

The nurse pouted. "That hurts. I studied for years to become a nurse. No, I met him at a party once and he made it worth my time." She shrugged. "Besides, I needed money for my lifestyle."

"Why attack Jane, then?"

"Red John grows tired of their game." She shrugged, "Also, I'm a nurse, which means I have no issue with blood and cutting into a body. Besides, I work here, so I was the best and most convenient choice."

Lisbon curled her lip in disgust.

"Cho, take her back and book her. Make sure to get a doctor to come in here on your way out."

The woman pouted again. "Would you not have a doctor look at me? I'm bleeding, too."

"Why should I help you?" Lisbon's voice was beginning to pitch toward a yell. "You've nearly killed my man!"

"At least I did something. You've done nothing for him in the last month."

"Nothing!" She was shrieking whole-heartedly now. "I've sat by his side the whole time! I've cleaned him, washed him, helped feed him, and I've saved his life!

"And, you! You're nothing but a–" she stopped short when she saw the smirk on the nurse's face.

Without taking her eyes from the woman's, she said, "Cho. Get a doctor for Jane and lock her up."

Cho nodded, pushing the woman toward the door.

The nurse turned her head. "Wait! Wait, there's something else. In my front pants pocket, a second gift to Mr. Jane from Red John."

Van Pelt looked at Lisbon for direction. She nodded her forwards. The younger woman stepped around Cho and slipped her and into the pocket. Finding nothing, she dug in the next one and pulled out a small object.

Cho started pushing her again and they disappeared down the hall.

Van Pelt returned to Lisbon with the object.

It was a gold ring with three diamonds set into it. One was larger, maybe half a carat? The other two were half the size of the first. Around a full carat of diamond. She took the ring from Van Pelt and turned it over in her fingers. She read the hallmark on the inside of the ring, a hand-engraved 22K.

She blinked. This ring was impressively expensive. Well, she realized it wasn't the most expensive ring ever, but it was a lot more than she would have expected for a ring if anyone had proposed to her.

That's when it dawned on her. This was a wedding ring. The case file from the Jane family murders popped into her mind. The only thing that had been stolen was the wedding ring that the wife had been wearing.

Oh.

She would give this to Jane, but not quite yet. She pushed it into a pocket.

* * *

**AN: I hope you like what I've done here. Again, review however you want, I need feed back on this.**

* * *

**Damn, I really messed this chapter up. Maybe I should have read it _before_ I posted it.**

**EDITED (again...) 4/20**


	5. Triage

**AN: Same with the new chapter four, you'll have to not skim this one. Please review!**

* * *

Lisbon turned about, taking stock in the room. Jane was lying on the bed, his limbs bound, the gag in his mouth; the dose of analgesic sat empty on the side table; Van Pelt crouched over Rigsby, who was himself, curled around his hands; there was a laptop on the small table, open and facing the bed.

"Rigs?"

He looked up at her, pain creasing his forehead.

"What's wrong?"

He held his hand out, wincing, showing her the bloody mess that was his palm. It appeared that he had cut himself when he grabbed the knife. Lisbon bent down and took his bloody hand in both of hers, looking at it closely.

"Flex just your fingers if you can," she instructed softly.

He did and she had to swallow bile at the sight of tendons sliding passed the opening.

"You'll need stitches. I'll have the doctor do them after they look at Jane's cuts, okay?" They weren't cuts. That was too small of a word for what they were.

He nodded.

Van Pelt touched her shoulder gently. "Take care of Jane, I'll make sure he's okay."

Lisbon nodded and stood, taking a paper towel from the stack next to the computer and wiped Rigsby's blood off her hands. She turned back to Jane and started freeing him from the restraints. After untying his feet, She turned again.

"Rigs, you can use my cot, if you need."

Walking to the head of the bed, she began to untie his hands. She stopped, catching sight of his face.

It was slack around the gag and his eyes were glazed over.

Her fingers fumbled on the knots as the panic rose in her, forcing her to slow down over the knots, which only caused the tightness in her chest to worsen.

Finally she managed to get his wrists free. Her hands flew to the gag, tugging it loose with a few twists. She flung it behind her and immediately put her hand against his mouth, feeling for his breath. Finding it steady and only a little shallow, she calmed slightly.

She had seen cut up bodies before. But for some reason, seeing Jane like this… She was barely able to keep a horrible keening built of anxiety and fear from welling up in her throat, if she let it get out… She'd be of no use to anyone.

It's because he's just woken up from a coma, said the logical part of her brain.

The illogical part had another answer, but she refused to listen.

She pulled down the sheet so that it exposed the lowest most of the gashes, just above his navel. Still acting quickly, she daubed the blood off with a pillowcase, gently but efficiently. Most of the cuts were shallow, she could ignore those, since they were little deeper than those caused by a belt-whipping and would not cause him to bleed out. But at least two, especially the last one the nurse had carved down Jane's side as she was falling, were deeper. Had she wanted to, she probably could have put a finger up to the second knuckle in the first. For the second… Lisbon took the bloody pillowcase and folded it into a pad, pressing it firmly against the wound. She needed something to hold it there with, she looked around.

There was a jangling behind her, and she turned, her hands still firmly pressed into Jane's side, to see Rigsby holding out his belt in a badly shaking hand.

"It's okay, Rigs. The doctor will be here in a minute."

She took the belt and slid it under Jane's body. Fortunately, Rigsby had a slightly narrower waist than Jane, which gave her an excuse to tighten the belt to the amount of pressure she needed without feeling guilt.

When Jane didn't grunt at the tightness of the belt, she felt her chest begin to tighten again.

Lisbon moved back to his head and looked at it for a second, trying to get the tremors in her hands to stop. His eyes had closed during the make-shift triage session. She lifted one eyelid and watched to see the reaction. The pupils were dilated, but did not contract at the light in the room.

Damn.

"Jane." She shook his shoulder. "Jane!" She shook it again, harder.

"Why isn't he responding?" Van Pelt said, worry lending an edge to her voice.

Lisbon moved fast, dropping the side rail of the bed and lifting Jane's torso.

"He's catatonic," she explained.

She heaved his torso up further and edged up onto the bed next to him. Still supporting his weight, Lisbon maneuvered herself so she was sitting against the raised bed behind Jane, her legs on either side of him, his body leaning back against her own.

"What-"

Lisbon cut her off. "It's what my brothers used to do for me when our father beat me. I did it for them too. If he stays unconscious, there's a definite possibility of him sinking into another coma," she explained. _One he might not wake up from, this time_, she added silently to herself.

"I need you guys to be quiet, it's sort of like hypnotism, and I need to focus. Rigs, I think you seriously have to get your hand looked at."

He looked up from the hunch he was in around his injured hand. "Cho went to go find a doctor, remember?"

Lisbon stopped for a moment, thought, and then nodded. She was getting confused, that wasn't good. She reached down and took Jane's right hand in her left and started to rub little circles into it, spreading a ring of red blood onto his pale hand.

"Everything's all right Jane. No one's going to hurt you again," she began, the words and others like them becoming sort of a chant, a never ending stream of calm phrases, reassuring phrases. Her words evolved slowly, as he failed to respond, and she began to cry, without stopping her words. "C'mon, Patrick, I know where you are, I've been there, you can't stay there, it's not real. Follow me, follow my voice, Patrick, come back to the real world."

He had always said people responded better when you made a connection with them. Besides, she knew where he was hiding, the same sort of place had been her safe haven when her father beaten her almost to death during some of his drunken rages.

She could almost picture where he must be wandering. There had been a carnival that came to Chicago during the summer. It must have looked a lot like the one he had grown up in. Booths and games everywhere, rides and pavilions forming small streets. She smiled briefly, still talking. Her favorite pavilion had actually been for a psychic. The psychic, a boy, only fifteen or sixteen, had played liaison for her with her dead grandmother, who she had only lost a few months earlier.

Patrick must have been a lot like that boy when he was younger, blonde, with unruly hair that hung to his chin and piercing blue-green eyes.

Realization dawned on her and her eyes widened, though her words remained uninterrupted.

That was why his style of reading, when ever he did it theatrically, at least, reminded her of the boy. They were the same person.

She smiled as she spoke. "C'mon Patrick, you gotta wake up. We need you here. I need you here. It's not fair for you to go again. There are people here that actually need you, I think I need you.

"You are so confusing. I think I might have feelings for you, but I can't find out if I should until you come back.

"I can help you recover from this, I've been there, I know where you are. Please come to me, I can help you."

He stirred against her slightly and groaned.

Her tears dropped on his face as she sobbed slightly. "That's it, Patrick, follow me, you'll be back soon. You don't have to be scared; she can never hurt you again. She's gone. You're safe here with me. I have you, you're safe in my arms."

She pulled the hand she was rubbing up to her face and pressed it against her lips. The gesture surprised even her.

It had an effect though. His eyes flickered and he began to mutter, quietly at first, but soon, she could make out words. "I'll… follow. Where… where are…" he swallowed and licked his lips, "…you?"

"I'm here Patrick. Follow me and I'll lead you out. You have to trust me."

"I trust you. I just… can't find…" His voice took on an edge of panic. "Come back! Where… are… you?"

"Patrick! I'm right here, I'm holding you. You're not lost, you're not alone. I've got you." She pressed a second kiss onto his forehead. His eyes fluttered again and he squeezed her fingers.

"There …you are. I… will… follow. Don't leave… me again. I'll… not leave you… ever."

He swallowed again. "I… love you,… Teresa."

Her world spun and she had to blink rapidly to slow it. She had not been anticipating her name finishing that statement as he had fought to say the first three words. She had expected Angela's name.

It set her heart pounding, too. The emotion she had fought away earlier returned. She did not react as violently as she had earlier, she just pushed it away for a moment before it crept back. After two or three attempts, she gave up and let the feeling do what it wanted.

"C'mon Patrick, you just have to go through the door, or turnstile. Or tent flaps. If you go through them, you'll be out. You'll be back in our world. I've got you. You'll be perfectly safe."

His eyes fluttered again and he turned slightly against her, his head falling onto her shoulder.

Suddenly, he blinked rapidly and opened his eyes.

"Hullo, Teresa."

"Hi, Patrick."

"Thank you."

She smiled .

They were silent for a long while, staring into the other's eyes.

His were beautiful chameleon eyes. They were grey when he was angry or sad or hurt, like right now. But when he was happy or pulling pranks, they were a brilliant blue. Sometimes, though they were edged with green. It was not that often that she saw it, and she could never quite figure out what the trigger was, but it had been happening more in the last six months than ever before.

It was happening right now, she realized, his eyes were beginning to color slightly and take on a green tinge.

Another change was happening to his face, it was growing softer, more open. She could see all of the unnamed pains and joys that made up the man in her arms and it made her feel important, like she had been made privy to something that had never been shared with any one.

Slowly, his hand pulled out of hers and lifted to her face, rubbing the tears off her cheek. His hand moved again, to resting on the back of her head, his fingers twining into her hair.

Gently, almost nervously, he pulled her down toward him, his eyes searching her face.

Her mind sped. This wasn't right, she couldn't….

The look in his eyes silenced her mind.

His lips brushed hers.

She didn't pull away.

He pressed slightly harder, molding his lips against hers.

A bolt of energy and heat shot from her breasts to the core of her womanhood and she gasped, left breathless and a little dizzy.

He readjusted his mouth slightly and she found herself gasping again. Cautiously, he asked to deepen the kiss.

She felt compelled to answer, and relaxed into the kiss, giving herself over to it.

Every time his tongue came into contact with hers, a tremor ran through her as another touch of the strange heat that made her respond to and participate actively in the kiss flashed through her.

Soon, too soon for her liking, she was out of breath, and needing to pull away.

She did, slowly, and smiled at Jane, who watched her, a questioning look in his eyes.

A horrible, deep laugh filled the room, slightly tinny from poor-quality speakers. Jane jerked in her arms, trying to find the source of the sound.

Lisbon realized it was coming from the laptop, which she had assumed was off since the screen was black. Looking again, she saw the taskbar at the bottom of the screen and the edge of the window on the program that was open.

The laugh broke off and was replaced by a voice.

"Hello, Agents! I'm sorry about Danniella, Wayne, she was never supposed to use that knife on anyone but Patrick.

"And speaking of: Happy Anniversary, Mr. Jane! I just wanted you to know that you've just killed the beautiful Agent Teresa Lisbon. I'm sorry sweetheart. Didn't think he'd get you too, did you?"

The voice started laughing again.

Lisbon's arm jerked up, holding her gun and fired a second shot, blasting the computer to pieces.

The laughter cut out.


	6. Tied Down

Two (-ish) hours earlier

Jane watched the nurse warily. He did not enjoy being in situations with strangers where he was not in control. She bustled around the small room, setting up what she needed to use to help him get clean, and pulling a bag of his clothes out of a cupboard.

He realized that Lisbon wanted to give him his privacy, but he wished she had stayed. He felt… safe… near her.

There was something else, too, but he kept that figuratively locked in one of the more secure regions of his mind palace. The thoughts were not appropriate.

He rolled the fingers on his left hand, thinking, then looked at it, startled. His wedding ring was gone. He hoped it was in the bag of his clothes or that Lisbon had it. If it was gone…

It was the last part of his marriage with Angela that he kept with him.

The nurse started talking. "How are you Patrick?"

He shrugged.

"You are really quite lucky that your fiancée cares for you so much. She's sat by you every day for the last month."

He inhaled deeply and felt his pulse speed up as realization dawned on him.

He was engaged.

He was engaged to Lisbon!

He grinned broadly.

A figurative version of himself whooped and laughed, running down the narrow aisles between the stalls in the carnival of his memory palace. At one jump, he was in one of the most special places in the carnival circuit.

It was the Chicago Navy Pier, decked out in the trappings of the carnival that he had grown up in.

He kept every memory he had of Her here, each one neatly tucked into different stall or fixture of the carnival.

He raced through the pavilions, running fingers over the surface of the memories as a warm rain sprinkled around him. He loved getting caught in the rain with Lisbon. Rain was his second favorite type of weather, after sun on the beach, and he loved that Lisbon was just as infatuated as getting caught in the rain as he was.

And what the rain did for her figure by making her clothes cling to her curves…

He blushed as he realized what he had just been thinking about Lisbon, his boss. He couldn't afford to think that way. It made working with her sometimes very difficult.

Wait–

He didn't need to suppress these thoughts or keep these moments locked away any more. He basked in the warm feeling that was washing over him as he stirred the contents of them. He was engaged to marry her!

His figurative self stopped short. Among the most recent memories of her, he could find no evidence of their engagement.

He felt ill. He must be in another fugue state. It made him sad that he could not remember the proposal, but…

He was engaged to Teresa Lisbon!

"–do you think, Patrick?"

He looked up, realizing that thr nurse had been speaking to him. He wished she would not use his first name. It made him uncomfortable to hear it on the tongue of a stranger.

He added a question to his gaze.

"I asked if you were ready for us to start."

He shrugged noncommittally.

"Alright then!" she said cheerily. She pulled away his blanket and lifted the gown, revealing the diaper. She began her task, carefully removing the catheter, then deftly cleaning the rest of his body.

When she finished, she removed everything from the bed and sat down at the foot of it.

"Ahhh… Mr. Jane, your woman is quite lucky to have you, but the way she acts when I mention your… unmentionables… she clams up and blushes. Have you never had sex with her?"

He stared at her wide eyed. What the hell was this?

"No?" she laughed, "That explains it. But she has to have seen you. No intelligent woman would get engaged without seeing the whole package." She gestured at his groin.

Again, he stared at her wide eyed. Where the hell was this obviously disturbed woman coming from with these questions?

"Still, no? Have you seen her? No? What if _she's_ got the wrong plumbing?"

His face burned with anger.

She cackled. "What have you been doing? Saving yourselves entirely for marriage? Celibate?"

He looked away overly fast, Lorelei flashing through his mind.

"No? Aww… Righteous Mr. Patrick Jane couldn't keep his wang occupied with videos and fantasies and his hand long enough to stay true to his girl. Was she pretty?

"Maybe that red head that was in here just a moment ago? Little bit of fun behind the boss' back?"

He snarled soundlessly at her.

"Office incest not your thing? Well, I guess it is if you're marrying your boss. Not red heads then. Fiery little brunettes like your fiancée? Not red headed but still… _red_?"

What?

He looked at her confusedly.

She scoffed. "Seems to me you're a little gone up there. The old Patrick Jane would have gotten that."

He stared at her blankly.

"Get up." She looked disgusted.

He struggled to sit up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He trembled slightly as he tried to stand. His feet stung as they touched the cold floors and ached sharply when he tried to put pressure on them.

Looking up at her, he saw the disgust and amusement on her face as he tried to walk to the bathroom. He stumbled, going to a knee. It was almost easier to crawl than walk on his burning feet.

He knew his naked ass was up in the air and that the perverted nurse was staring at it, but it was almost more than he could manage to not cry out in pain each time his knees touched the floor. He had no concentration left over to worry about trying to cover up.

Crawling into the bathroom and into the shower, he carefully dragged himself up onto the bench in the shower, where the water was already running. This must have been the rain he interpreted into his mind palace.

He sat silently, letting the water run over him. It felt good. There was soap, lady shampoo, and conditioner sitting on the small shelf. Lisbon must have showered here instead of going home to do it, the whole room smelled like her. He reached out and took the soap, slowly beginning to clean the whole of his body.

If it hadn't been for the nurse watching him from the doorway it would have a very peaceful shower.

He finished and leaned back, letting the water beat on his skin. He moved so the water hit his shoulders, the continuous tattoo of it sending him into a light trance.

Slipping into a light sleep, he began to dream of his daughter, as she had been in reality, not in the belladonna induced hallucinations. Strangely enough, they were some of the happiest dreams he had had of her in a very long time, simply dancing and playing with her in their backyard.

* * *

"Get up."

He blinked and looked up groggily, aware that the shower had been turned off.

"I said get up. Your woman's getting antsy."

He leaned his head back and scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hands. Again, standing on his swollen feet was agony, but there were walls to lean against in the shower as opposed to in the main room.

Catching the towel the nurse threw at him, he dried his body. He scanned the room for his undergarments and the new gown laying on the bed, which had been cleared of the sheet. The nurse was leaning against the far side of the bed, obviously not meaning to give him any sort of help. He stumbled over, barely keeping his balance on shaky legs.

He grimaced when he realized that he was unable to stand on one leg to put his underwear on. Slumping against the bed, he pulled on his boxer briefs, then shrugged into the gown. He lifted himself into the bed and rolled into a comfortable position.

He became aware that the nurse was on the phone, a small pre-paid deal pressed against her ear.

"Yes… No, she's here too… Persistent, won't leave… Yes, he's awake. Do you want to talk with him?... Yes, I'll tell him… Now? I can't start just yet, but if you would please give me a few minutes. I have to get the supplies… Of course I have a laptop. I'll bring it too… Yes…" she frowned slightly, sounding put-upon. "…All right… No! No, I didn't mean it like that!... Yes, of course… Forty minutes… Yes… I'll tell him."

She hung up the phone.

"One of my friends, RJ, is a med student at Johns Hopkins, I told him about your case, he wants to talk to you about what caused your coma, he thinks you would make a good thesis paper. He's back east so he can only talk over webcam, is that okay?"

Jane shrugged. This woman had never been on her rocker, she had never had marbles, and her she had never had been any cheese on her cracker. One minute ignoring him and laughing while he struggled, the next talking to her friend, who wanted to write a paper about him.

"Okay, I'll tell him." She left, taking the dirty things with her.

He pulled the blankets up over his lap and settled back, crossing his arms to think. Now that there was nothing on the table, he saw that the sheet of paper he had been writing on was gone. Hopefully Lisbon had it. There wasn't anything of a personal nature on the paper, but he still didn't want the nurse to have it. There was something definitely wrong with that woman.

What right did she have to talk like _that_ about his fiancée?

His fiancée! Good God, he was going to get married to Lisbon!

It felt so odd to be in love again, that's definitely what it was, there was no way he could deny the feeling, especially now that he was engaged. It also felt slightly wrong. Just as he was getting so close to getting Red John, to avenge his wife and daughter, he was getting married.

There had to be some reason they'd get engaged.

Jesus! Was she pregnant?

He hadn't seen anything, but if she was only around two months, there wouldn't be much evidence. He couldn't remember ever being intimate with her, that was certainly nothing he could ever imagine forgetting, but he had forgotten ever being with Angela or having Charlotte in his last fuege state.

Lisbon walked back into the room, sour faced.

He looked at her from the corner of his eye, he couldn't tell anything in this half light. Maybe there was a slight glow? Her hips maybe a little broader? Her lips fuller?

He mimed writing, and pointed at the stack of papers and tilted his head to give himself a questioning look.

"The paper is in my pocket? Do you want to write?"

He shook his head, feeling better that the nurse had not stolen the paper. He folded his arms again.

Was it normal for nurses to take calls while with patients? He'd been in the hospital four times, twice while with the CBI, but could not remember any nurse taking a personal call, no, her phone hadn't rung, making a personal call at any point.

What was he going to ask about? he wondered. There wasn't much to ask about, or that he'd be willing to tell.

He glanced at Lisbon again. She looked tired, which was one sign of pregnancy. She was also rubbing her back, which was another sign. Even her breasts appeared vaguely larger than he remembered.

Was it a- No, it would be too early in the pregnancy, if she was, to tell.

No, it was more likely that she was just tired and if she had been sitting in a hospital chair and sleeping in a cot, she would definitely have a pinch in her back.

With one last glance at Lisbon, he slipped into his memory palace and began digging, rooting through it for signs of his engagement, the proposal, anything that would link his current state of affianced-ness to the miraculous woman that sat in the chair at his bedside.

Some time later, he registered her jumping at something, probably a vibration from her phone.

He grinned mentally as she pulled it out and checked it.

"Jane," she said, "Cho, Rigsby, and Van Pelt are all here in the parking lot. They want to know if you are ready to see them."

He shrugged.

"I'll take that as a yes, then," she said, typing in the response text. "But you better make it worth their whiles. Apparently Rigsby drove so fast he only avoided getting a ticket by showing his badge to an officer at a stoplight. The officer had to call in their plate number so they wouldn't get pulled over."

He mind-smiled again. It seemed Rigsby had taken a leaf from the book of the driving school of Patrick Jane. He could almost hear Van Pelt's chagrined squawks as the man sped the whole distance.

Soon, he could hear them approach the open door and he stirred himself out of his memory palace, disappointed that he had not found anything related to it. The last case however… It certainly had not been properly filed when he passed out. He was finding images from it strewn all throughout his memory palace and he was strugging to put them away without triggering them.

He had been happy to see the team, even though his brain only registered it as having been a few hours since he had last seen them. When Cho threw the pineapple on his lap though, he shot the man a sheepish grin. Had he not been hospitalized, he was sure that he would have had much worse payback than a bag of mold and corn syrup.

Soon though, the twisted nurse came back into the room carrying a medicine cup in one hand and a laptop under her arm.

"Can I ask you to step out for a moment?" she asked.

Lisbon nodded at the nurse and then looked back at him. "We'll be back in a moment."

He sighed, wishing that the team, particularly Lisbon would stay.

The nurse set the medication down, then placed the laptop down. She opened the top of the computer and walked around the table. She bent down behind the computer and then adjusted it on the table before reaching over it and pressing the power button. The screen flashed on, revealing an open program that looked like a webcam client.

Danni moved back to the bed and pulled his chin toward her. "I need you to open your mouth, I have to check your throat. You may want to close your eyes." She pulled a small flashlight out of a pocket.

He obeyed, squinching his eyes shut against the light, and jumped forward as he felt something wrap tightly around his wrist. His eyes snapped open as Danni wrenched his arm, pulling it to the siderail, binding it here. He moved to reach for it, but suddenly found a knife point pressed to his chin. He lifted his chin, trying to escape the knife but found he couldn't get far enough away.

"Don't you even think to undo that knot. If you do, so help me, I'll gut you right here."

He blinked once, hoping she understood it to be an assent.

She moved behind the head of the bed and tried to grab his other wrist. He threw his hand forward to try and get at her and then screamed silently as the wicked hunting knife pinned his hand to the matress.

"Yes, Mr Jane, fight me and you'll find yourself full of holes I don't intend to give you."

She wrentched the knife free, the serration ripping at the soft tissue on the back of his hand. He held still as she bound his other hand.

_Holes?_ Was she going to-? He watched a drop of blood run down his palm. _She means to kill me._

He watched, not moving as she tied his feet down in a similar manner. His mind was blank and suddenly overwhelmed as dozens of thoughts flooded it at once. He would never marry Lisbon or see his child (if she was pregnant). He would never see Rigsby and Van Pelt get back together. He would never see Cho grow a personality. He would never see the face of the man that had taken his wife and daughter from him go slack as he died. He would never hold his beloved Teresa in his arms again. Or get to say goodbye and apologize for everything he'd done to her.

The nurse finished tying him down and stepped back. He pulled mightily against the bindings hoping to pull them loose. They didn't and he fell back, winded and in pain.

* * *

**AN: Any guesses who Nurse Danni was talking to?**


	7. Thus Spake the Devil

**AN: Sorry it's been so long. I've had things and life and stuff. Anywhoo, this chapter is rather violent and gory. I have another Jane chapter planned for next.**

* * *

Jane panted, out of breath and feeling cornered. He pulled against the ties on his arms. Danni brandished the hunting knife. "As I see it, Mr. Jane, you've only got a few options. One, you let me cut you up, and stay quiet, since Red John would prefer it if you didn't make too much of a fuss. Two, you cry for your bitch and her cop friends - and this all depends on how I feel, mind you - I can cut out your pretty eyes before they can get in here, or maybe put this through your trachea or heart. I can also call her in here and kill her while you watch. Hmmm... this one might be best, open her throat and then her gut, so you can see what happened to Angela and Charlotte."

He lunged at her, his teeth bared.

"No? I swear I thought you'd love that suggestion... Here, best of both worlds, I'll carve you up so you can feel it, and if you try and fight me off I'll open up a small nick in your femoral artery so you bleed out slowly. I may still kill your bitch. You know, Red John's wanted her head for the better part of six years.

"I'll make the incisions as carefully as possible so they don't hurt too bad and I'll give you your medicine. I'm not cold hearted."

He closed his eyes, his face drawn, and fell back into the pillow. He could not watch Lisbon die like that. It would literally kill him. He would give this woman what she wanted no matter how much it hurt him so she wouldn't kill her.

He went limp, hoping the nurse understood what he meant by it.

She did.

"Mighty Patrick Jane. She really is your weakness, isn't she?"

He heard her walk around the bed to where she had set the tray with his medicine on it. Her hand was gentle behind his head as she lifted it up and pressed the cup to his lips.

He swallowed, praying to a God he didn't believe in that it was actually analgesic.

She stepped back, then walked to the computer and fiddled with it, initiating a session. Oddly, no image appeared on the screen, but he could hear a sound. A laugh.

Evil, horribly amused, slow and deep and gravely, it felt like ice settling into his bones.

Red John.

He felt panic well up in him, acid flooding up through his body as the voice spoke, raw, undisguised. He knew he was going to die. Red John would not speak to him in his real voice if he was not going to die.

It became hard to breath. It felt like a white-hot hand was gripping his esophagus behind his collarbones. He couldn't breath he was getting light headed, and he felt like throwing up. Twice before he had felt like this. Both caused by the man laughing at him through the computer.

"Hello, Mr. Jane. I hope you enjoyed your little snooze."

Jane snarled at the close mimic to his own voice, and realizing he could speak with little pain now, mastered the nausea.

"Show yourself!"

"Calm, calm, Jane. You shouldn't cause yourself undue stress."

"Undue!" He squealed, pulling at the bonds, "I've just woken up from a coma induced by seeing a murder based on the killing of my family, been bound and stabbed by a psychopathic nurse, and I'm talking to the man that killed my family!"

"Stabbed? Danniella, you stabbed him? I told you, no blood until I was watching. Why did you break that?" He seemed angry. At her.

"He tried to kill me!"

"I very much doubt he would have been able to do anything. He's been comatose for a month and has muscular atrophy. Am I right, Patrick?"

"Don't use my name," he spat.

Red John's voice sounded mockingly defensive. "Oh, I apologize Mr. Jane. But, since you did not deny it, I would assume I'm correct. We shall have to _talk_ about your punishment, Danniella."

She swallowed, looking terrified momentarily.

"In response to your earlier request, Mr. Jane, I will not show my face. I'd rather you die never knowing who it was that you had slandered. It's one of the last fun things for me in our game."

Game. His life had been reduced to hell for a game. He had always called it that, but hearing it from His mouth made it feel so perverse.

"Why did you kill them?"

"What?"

"Why did you kill my wife and daughter?" He felt tears starting in his eyes, he needed to know the reason his life had been destroyed.

"You know why. Your words that day, on that show. It's your fault Mr. Jane. You killed them with your words."

He closed his eyes and turned away.

"I have an answer to one of your questions, Mr. Jane."

He turned back. "Which would that be?"

"You wondered if it hurt. I personally don't have the answer, but from what I can tell, it does. You can be the judge of that, however."

He shivered, hoping that it would be over soon. Or that Lisbon would run back in the room for something forgotten and save him.

Red John's voice sounded again, "Gag him, Danniella. We can't have him make too much noise, or we'll never get the process finished.

"Wait! Wait, I have to know, why did you start killing people?"

The voice from the computer sounded surprised. "You really want to know? I'm flattered. I was a medical student at Johns Hopkins. I was in the upper five per cent of my class. Blood facinated me. Seeing inside patients always facinated me. During my residency, I was assisting with a surgery -bowel reconstruction- and the patient died.

"The surgeon was totally inept and cut a major artery. I was up to my elbows in her, trying to keep pressure on the severed artery. She woke up for a moment and looked at me. I realized she wanted to die, and there was so much blood everywhere anyway. So I let go of it. The feeling of her slipping away, my hands inside her- I don't quite know how to explain it, but the feeling was better, more satisfying than any sexual encounter I've ever had. Death is so much more primal than sex. So much more intimate. I do not quite know how to explain it.

"_That_ Mr. Jane, is why I kill. With, of course, the exception of your family. I get pleasure out of it. If you can get your pleasure from women, why can I not get it from death?"

"Because," said Jane disgustedly, "Sex creates life and what you do- You destroy lives. You have no idea what it's like to lose everything. Your entire life gone in the blink of an eye. The pain is unbelievable."

"Au contraire, Mr. Jane. My whole family is dead. Killed because my brother had drug debts. I lived because I was at school and they couldn't find me." The voice sounded genuinely sad. It continued. "It is unfortunate Miss Lisbon is so attatched to you. I fear she will be hurt badly by your death. I believe she loves you. I promise you that I will not harm your team, so long as they do not come after me. If they do..." He left the phrase hanging, heavy with a threat.

"They are engaged," interjected the nurse.

"Engaged? To Agent Lisbon? Congratulations Mr. Jane! She's a great choice, certainly better than you deserve. You're much better at this game than I give you credit for, managing to keep it silent. Still, she will be spared if she does not meddle."

"Can I leave a note for her? Telling her not to pursue you?"

"I'll have Danniella write one. Dictate -"

"It has to be in my writing. She won't believe it if it's not from me."

"Fine, then. Make it quick. Danniella, untie one of Mr. Jane's hands and give him a pen and paper."

The nurse pulled a sharpie pen out of a pocket and placed it on the tray where the analgesic had been. She grabbed a paper from the stack next to the computer, added it to the tray, and placed the whole thing on his lap. With a nasty grin, she undid his bleeding right hand and stepped back.

He struggled to uncap the pen with one hand, the blood making everything slippery, the shooting pain causing his eyes to water.

Carefully, he began to write:

* * *

My Dearest Teresa,

I am sorry it has come to this, you reading my final farewell under a smile drawn in my blood. I would counsel you on how to deal with the pain, but I must be quick about this. Do not withdraw from the world, keep in contact with the team, get back in touch with Tommy and Annie. They are all your family. Especially the team.

You must not pursue Red John. He has promised that he will not come after the team if you do not hunt him.

Jesus Teresa, I love you so much. I must admit, if it seems that I was not attentive while you were in here, I believe I am in another Fuege state. I cannot remember our engagement. If I have forgotten about another important part of our relationship, I am beyond sorry and deeply grieved. If this is so, tell him or her that they were loved and wanted beyond belief.

You must find my father and tell him that I forgive him and that I realize he wasn't responsible for the accident. His name is Alexander Michael Jane. When I last checked, he worked in a carnival called Carnival Lunacchi.

My dear heart, I must go now. If I haven't expressed the depth of my love for you, it is because I cannot. There are no words to express the depth, the magnitude of what I feel for you.

All I can say is that I Love You, Teresa Lisbon, I am sorry that I will never see your beautiful face again, and that we will not spend the rest of our lives together.

Love you forever,

Patrick

* * *

He placed the pen down next to the blood-stained letter and put his wrist against the side rail of the bed. The letter did not fully encompass what he needed to say, but it would have to do.

The nurse replaced the tie around his wrist.

"Gag him," instructed Red John's voice.

"I'm so sorry, one final question."

"I am getting impatient, Mr. Jane."

"Have we ever met?"

"Yes, and held a conversation. Now, if you please Danniella?"

Danni walked back to his head and pulled a wad of cloth out of her pocket. She tapped his chin with it. "Open up."

He did and she jammed the wad between his jaws, then wrapped a bandage into his mouth, around his head, to keep him from working the gag out with his tongue. She tied it tight, making him retch as it forced his tongue back.

"Careful with him, we cannot have him suffoating before he bleeds dry. Can you breath through your nose all right, Mr. Jane?"

He nodded, sniffing loudly to demonstrate.

"Good. Right, Danniella, are you ready to begin?"

She nodded again, overeager.

"Good. The first cut an inch deep from the bottom of the sternum to the navel."

He cried out into the gag as the knife cut into him. Blood rose to the surface of the cut and he swooned.

"Do not leave us, Mr. Jane, we have only just started."

What-? How did this man get pleasure from this?

He steeled himself as the blade was lifted out.

"The second cut: perpendicular to the top of the first; same depth."

The knife plunged in again and his whole body shook as he bit back another scream.

"Now, you are going to wait for the blood to pool where the lines intersect. Feel free to make smaller cuts across the chest. You want to keep them small so he doesn't bleed out before we get to his aorta.

"Do you remember the pattern I showed you?"

"Yes."

"You are going to begin making that. The cuts on the pectorals no deeper than half an inch, same for the ones on the ribs. The ones on either side of the main cut are nearly an inch and then shallower as you go out."

Again and again, the knife cut into him sending bolts of pain rocketing up his spine and curling his toes as he sobbed into the gag.

"Okay, you can put that dowm for a moment. Do you have the glove?"

The knife was removed and set down, staining the sheet crimson. He tried to relax slightly.

"Yes." Her breathing was fast and her eyes dialated. She was just as disturbingly sadistic as he was. This was turning her on.

She pulled a yellow kitchen glove out of her pocket and slipped it onto her hand.

Wait, didn't this part come after he was dead?

"Yes, Mr. Jane, I am doing this out of order. I want my signature on the wall now, in case Agent Lisbon comes in here before you are completely dead. Are you ready, Danniella?"

"Yes." Her voice was overly eager.

"Calm down, Danniella. Go ahead. Use the blood from the intersection of the cuts."

Gently, she dipped her gloved fingers into the blood pooling in the bowl formed by the base of his pectorals. Holding her hand up, she slid behind the bed and began to make the mark. She returned twice for more blood and then finished, sliding back to the side of the bed.

"Very good. Nearly perfect. You know, I would almost give my left arm to be doing this right now, but if your lady cop gets back in the room, I'd rather not be there. Finish the pattern Danniella. Oh, and add some to the insides of his arms without cutting the veins."

She dug the knife into the soft flesh of his inner arm, and dragged it towards herself. He groaned through the gag and she smiled.

God, it didn't matter what Red John said at this point. It was still within his concious capabilities to build a world into which he could escape the pain. So he did. He created a world where he and Teresa had no responsibilities and they could spend the whole day, every day, in bed together, focusing only on each other.

As he slipped into this world he paused for a moment, saying his final farewells to the world and apologizing to Angela and Charlotte for not being able to take down Red John.

With a sigh, he stepped through the figurative gates of the mental world and swung them shut.

* * *

**I need reviews, dear readers. I was sad to see my readership drop after my last update and I don't know what you guys think anymore. **

**Please review. I'd like to eventually make 100.**


	8. Carnaval des Mémoires

**Disclaimer: I guess I have to do this, even if the name of the site makes it rather obvious, I don't own any of the characters, settings, or situations that actually exist on The Mentalist, the illustrious Mr. Heller does that.**

**Also I don't speak French.**

**AN: I want to thank all of my reviewers for doing just that. Getting your feedback on my writing makes me happy (And write faster).**

**To all of you that stuck by me when I changed the story, I want to thank you. It is disheartening to have your readership basically halve because you make a change that keeps you from getting up and pacing the house at 2am. I hope you understand the changes I made. I find it much easier and a lot less unsettling to write about the recovery from physical and mental wounds of the sort he sustains in this version than the wholly cerebral damage dealt in the previous version.**

**Hmm... About this chapter...**

**This will be the last overlapping time frame Jane chapter for now. I may have another set in the future, but that will be a while off.**

**Also, it starts off rather steamy, but where it goes, nobody knows!...Except me...and anyone that reads the chapter...and... I'll shut up now.**

* * *

**Oh! I promise I'm not getting all freaky Harry-Potter-in-King's-Cross you with this one. He's in shock which is making him more... receptive. If he had died Lisbon would certainly have let us all know. Quite loudly, too.**

**Okay. I'm done now.**

**Read on, d'Artagnan.**

* * *

_Jane pins his superior against the bed, kissing the slim ivory column of her neck. His tongue trails along her jaw as he works his way back to her mouth, capturing it in a blaze of sweet glory, each fighting languidly for dominance in the kiss. She speaks suddenly against his lips._

"You... arrest."

_Teresa?_

_She flips them over, straddling him, playing cop now. God, he loves this. Her nails trail down the center of his chest, eliciting a burning that spreads to his entire torso and arms, the feeling becoming nearly unbearable. _

_What is she doing to him?_

A bang and - A blinding stab of pain and someone in the room yelled.

Even his final escape deserted him as the world went suddenly black.

* * *

He opened his eyes. Where was he?

It was his carnival, but not as he last remembered it. Parts of it were fuzzy or hidden in a silver mist. It was like when he was -

"There you are Patrick. I've been worried sick." A tall, blonde woman with blue eyes came out from between two trailers.

"Mommy!" He raced forward and launched himself at her, clinging to one pant leg. "You've been gone a long time, Mommy, where did you go?"

"I get to ask first, young man. This is no place for a seven-year-old to be playing alone, were you with friends?"

"No...? Why don't I get to go play?"

She ruffled his hair. "You're a very pretty little boy. Weird people come to the carnival sometimes." She looked very tired.

"My turn!" he crowed. "Mommy," his voice was unsure now, "I remember you getting hurt, real bad. Are you better?"

Anne Marie Jane smiled widely and laughed, obviously glad at the change in subject, "You mean when the trailer fell down? Yes, baby, I'm all better. It just took a while."

There was a faint niggling of a question in the back of his mind. "I'm not dead, am I?"

"Gracious, Patrick! Where would you have ever gotten an idea like that?"

"I dunno? Is La here?"

She laughed again and scooped her son up. "Yes, baby. Daddy just went out to get some ice cream for all of us. He'll be back in a little bit."

"Yes!" he threw his arms up excitedly, "Ice cream!"

She smiled and carried him into their trailer.

Angela, La so his infant self had dubbed her with an inability to say 'g's properly, was sitting on a worn bench on one side of an equally worn, but clean table. At six years and ten months old, only three months separated them in age. That was about all that separated them, too. Well, that and bedtime.

Around the carnival they were called the Terrible Two. Between her cute factor and knowledge of how to use it to manipulate people, and his uncanny ability to pick out things about people he hadn't ever been told, they could and did certainly raise Cain if left unattended.

It did not amuse Andrew Jane, owner of the carnival that two children whose ages didn't even add up to the legal driving age, one of them his own grandson, had managed to get them chased out of two towns.

"La!" He shouted, over-joyed. He had only just seen her before lunch- or had he? Something in his mind made him think it had been much longer.

"Hi, Pat. Your mom says Uncle Alex is bringing us ice cream."

"Yeah. Do you wanna see something cool?" he asked.

She scooted over, making room for him on the bench.

He jumped up, still standing, and climbed on the table. He jumped again, trying to grab the handle of the storage cabinet over the table and missed, landing back on the table with a thump that shook the trailer.

"Patrick!" His mother spun, a slight shriek in her voice. When she saw he was unharmed her face changed from panic to anger. "Patrick, I've told you. Ask for things when you need them. You will need help with some things in life." Under her breath she added, "Unlike some husbands I know."

He shot her a smile, knowing she wasn't immune to it. Nobody was.

She sighed, helping him down of the table, onto the bench. "What do you need?"

"A toothpick. Pleeeeeaaaaase!"

She turned and opened the drawer below the sink, pulling out a yellow toothpick. "What were you doing looking in the cabinet, anyway? You know they are in this drawer."

He chose not to answer, not knowing what he had been doing either.

"Can I have a green one? It's my favorite."

Smiling tiredly at her son she replaced the yellow and pulled out a green one. She handed it over and he set it on the table. He put his hand over it and blew surreptitiously, sliding his hand over the table so it appeared as if it was moving without him touching it.

La clapped excitedly.

Just like he had shown Grace so long ago.

Wait. Grace?

In his mind he saw flashes of memory. Red hair. A broad smile. A head over the edge of a computer, brows furrowed.

"Mommy, do I know anyone named Grace?"

"Not any people. But one of Madame Lucy's cats is named Grace. Why?"

"But-" he started then realized he might have a last name if he looked at his phone. His hand went to his jacket pocket, but there wasn't one. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

"I don't know," he half-lied, "I just think the name is pretty."

Again, wait? Weren't computers huge? The size of houses, totally unable to fit on a desk. He'd seen pictures of the ones used to get astronauts to the moon- those, those were four times as big as Papa's performing tent. He must have been dreaming.

Anne twirled her hand, producing a deck of cards, and offered it to the children.

"Anybody feel like Go Fish while we wait?"

The Terrible Two locked eyes for just a moment then chorused, "No! Poker!"

He knew most people didn't like playing poker against him, especially when he was tag-teaming with La, but he wouldn't have it any other way. He watched as his mother pulled the old tin of poker chips from the cabinet and settled in a seat across from them.

"The odds?" she asked.

"If we win extra ice cream!" La said determinedly.

"If I win?"

He scrunched his forehead thinking of the possibilities that would still have La and him winning. "We go to bed on time."

Anne laughed, "That would certainly be a welcome change."

With that, she set to dealing the cards as neither child had hands big enough yet to hold the whole deck.

She was a proficient poker player, basically the best they played that was permanently attached to the carnival, but her eyes gave away too much. He watched the minute changes in the soft skin around her eyes as they fixed on each of the cards in her hand.

She had a full house. Three... queens, pair of kings. Great hand.

They were one card short of a royal flush in clubs. Stupid two of diamonds.

At a surreptitious touch of his knee to La's she looked over and crinkled her brow, acting. She was doing her we-have-absolutely-nothing-good face, which technically was true compared to his mom's hand.

He put down the two card and was dealt... the ace of clubs. Bingo!

She pushed all her chips in and looked at them expectantly. Giving a nervous look to La, he nodded, chewing his lips. La mimed his mother putting in all their chips.

Triumphantly, his mother fanned her cards out on the table and placed her hand on the chips. She looked up sharply when there was no sound of defeat from them, only to be met with a dooming royal flush and two creepily triumphant smiles on two equally beaming faces.

"How is it that you do that?" she demanded.

Innocently he asked, "What, get hands like that? You dealt it to us."

"Oh, stink you, you know very well what I mean. How do you... never mind. Rematch?"

"It's just like when you and Daddy read people for the show. I watch the tiny changes in faces that you taught me to look for. We beat Granpa yesterday."

"I'm sure he was happy about that."

"Akshully-"

"Ack-too-ly, Patrick."

"Actually, Mommy, he was. He said he might give me and La our own booth so people could challenge us and we could win."

She pursed her lips.

"How, 'bout we practice until Dad gets back? No betting though. I don't think your parents would like it if I sent you back to them chock-full of sugar, Angie."

The Terrible Two exchanged looks and turned back, smiling predatorily. "Okay," they chorused.

He was having more fun than he had in a long time.

Six wins later for the Two and zero for the confounded mother, preceded by keys jangling against the door, Alexander Jane walked in with two, not one, _two_, tubs of ice cream.

It was immediately obvious why. One was an ungodly, just-off-neon blue substance dotted with pink, red, yellow, white, orange, and green knobs in it. The other was cookies and cream.

Anne nearly cursed when she saw the ice cream. As it was, she still struggled to censor her next comment. Throwing a look of concern at her husband, Anne asked, "What the He—ayrack _is_ that?"

"Bubble gum ice cream."

"God, why is it blue?"

"I have no idea. I think it's supposed to taste like cotton candy. The colors are actual gumballs. Kids, would you like to try some?"

"Yes!" They tended to answer things at the same time if both addressed, which also totally creeped most adults out, or made them thing the Two were twins.

Skeptically, Anne asked, "Have you tried it?"

"No."

"Fine, they can have it, but I will not eat anything that incredibly... blue."

Alex smiled and pulled bowls and spoons out of a cabinet and set them on the table. He served the kids the freakishly blue ice cream, then scooped out the more realistic flavor for himself and his wife. Lidding both tubs, he tossed them into the tiny freezer and flopped into the unoccupied seat.

He must have spotted the most recent winning hand from under the edge of his son's bowl and asked, "Whose hand?" It was another royal flush.

"Mine," answered Patrick through his mouthful of cold-hardened bubble gum.

"Jeez, Pat. That's good luck."

Anne pursed her lips. "It's his second in seven rounds. I think he's counting cards."

Alex looked surprised. "Pat, are you?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I know where every one is in the deck, though. Mommy has a pair of sixes, club and heart, the eight of spades, two of diamonds, and the ace of hearts," he said as he pointed to each card in turn. "The first card on her dealer's pile is a three of clubs."

Anne Jane blanched, causing her husband to turn over her cards. He was spot on, down to the positioning. And the top card in the deck? Three of clubs.

She laughed nervously. "Maybe you should take Granpa up on his offer."

Alex cocked his head. "He actually offered it to you? He said he might."

"We beat him," offered La.

"Dad told me you did. If you can beat the chief con himself, then there are very few that can beat you."

Patrick grinned, so did La.

They spent the next ten minutes they spent discussing the offer with the kids, what it would mean, the responsibilities they would have.

As they were settling into the idea that it might be good to keep the Two out from under foot, Patrick heard a sort of echo-y voice calling his name. It was extremely familiar, but he just couldn't place it. Maybe one of the people from the Chicago Navy Pier staff?

He looked around to see if anyone else had heard it and jumped.

In his father's place was a beautiful girl. About eighteen, she had blonde hair which fell in well-maintained ringlets to her waist and beautifully proportioned features.

He looked at La, sheepishly for thinking another girl pretty and was surprised to see she was suddenly the same age as the girl sitting across from him. One look at his mother and she was in her fifties, or at least what she should have looked like in her fifties, having never made her 38th birthday. A glance at his hands told him he was in his late teens, too.

What was going on?

He turned back to the beautiful blonde and said, "Who-?"

Her face crinkled into a sad smile that made her features disappear and he knew, like he knew the woman sitting next to her was his mother, that this was Charlotte. His beautiful baby girl as she would have looked if she was not the belladonna induced Charlotte, definitely not. That Charlotte had been a figment of his mind, an extrapolation based on the memories he had of his daughter; he was sure the one in front of him was real.

As little as he liked the idea of ghosts, he knew the women around him were such. That's why his father wasn't here anymore. Alexander Jane was still alive.

An eerie indistinct voice sounded from somewhere outside the trailer. An image of brunette hair, freckles, and green eyes danced through his mind.

He stood reluctantly from the game, feeling drawn to the door, toward the voice. He looked back.

La met his eyes. "It's okay Pat. I want you to be happy."

He stared at her.

"Go. It's okay."

He understood vaguely, smiled, and moved to the open door frame. He didn't want to leave. He was happy here in the carnival with his family and best friend.

Again, he heard the voice, this time distinct enough for him to make out words. "Please come to me. I can help you."

If he didn't know where the sound was coming from, how could he follow it? He groaned, hating feeling lost.

She, the voice was definitely female, was talking again. "She can never hurt you again. She's gone. You're safe here with me. I have you, you're safe in my arms."

There was a tingling on the back of his left hand, like a kiss. He looked back at the women around the table. Charlotte smiled and said, "It's okay, Daddy." He stepped out the door and down the three stairs. Shutting it behind him, he took a few steps and stopped, unable to see the woman who was speaking.

It was possible, if he spoke, she would show herself. His throat hurt when he did. He had to fight to speak, even haltingly.

"I'll follow. Where are you?"

"I'm here Patrick. Follow me and I'll lead you out. You have to trust me."

How could she not think he trusted her? He started walking toward where he though the voice was coming from. He saw a flash of a form moving behind a tent.

Moving forwards, he said, "I trust you. I just can't find…" The form disappeared. No! Where was she going? "Come back! Where are you?"

"Patrick! I'm right here, I'm holding you. You're not lost, you're not alone. I've got you." She stepped out from behind the pavilion and walked to him, green eyes shining bright in the partially faded light. She covered the ground swiftly, rose onto her toes, and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. He blinked in surprise. He could not ever remember her doing that.

She took his hand and he squeezed it.

"There you are. I will follow. Don't leave me again. I'll not leave you ever." He looked fervently into her eyes, hoping she would accept his promise.

She just watched him, curiously. He had to make her understand. She was his Teresa.

That was it- Teresa. How had he forgotten?

"I love you, Teresa."

She gasped slightly, stilling, and then smiled. Pulling one hand from his, she turned and began walking. "C'mon Patrick, you just have to go through the door, or turnstile. Or tent flaps. If you go through them, you'll be out. You'll be back in our world. I've got you. You'll be perfectly safe."

He saw what she wanted him to go through, the bank of turnstiles at the entrance of the Chicago Navy Pier. Speeding up, he took the lead and pulled her toward them. Turning to ease through the spinning gates, he looked back and smiled at her. As he stepped through to the far side, the world suddenly went white.

* * *

He turned as pain flooded back into him and jolted awake as his head slipped off of something. Blinking hard, he opened his eyes and looked up, bright green, tear-laden eyes looked back at him.

"Hullo, Teresa."

She laughed weakly. "Hi, Patrick."

"Thank you." It was unnecessary to say why. It was obvious from her eyes she knew why he was thanking her.

He watched her silently. She was... amazing. She had endured so much in even just the last few hours since he had woken up and even before that too.

There was blood on her face. A streak, like the rubbing of a finger, was on the side of her nose and another ran along the line on her temple where she swept back loose hairs. It was probably his own.

God... Those green eyes of hers, so intent and questioning, so full of concern and care filled him. They were, in part, what made him want to get up in the morning. Because her loved that smile of her. Because he loved her.

He pulled his left hand free from hers and cautiously moved it to cradle the back of her head, tucking his fingers into her hair. Her eyes widened and her breathing hitched slightly.

Slowly, he pulled her toward himself, giving her plenty of chance to escape. He searched her eyes, looking for her disapproval, desperately hoping it wasn't there. When he could not find it, he nearly sighed in relief, and closed the distance between their two mouths.

It was like fireworks going off in his head and the rest of his body. He hadn't even...

Gently, he parted his lips and pressed his tongue softly against her lips. She accepted him, allowing the kiss to deepen.

If what he had felt before was fireworks, he was a tin man in a flat field during a lightning storm. His body was so filled with the heady experience of kissing her, that he barely remembered what he was doing.

It was the taste of her that reminded him. Incredibly sweet, but bitter like coffee and uniquely her, it had him reaching hungrily for more.

Again and again the lightning struck him, each time their tongues touched, leaving stars dancing behind his eyelids.

Then she pulled away, leaving him feeling bereft, until he saw her eyes dilated and her lips swollen, her chest rising and falling quickly as she caught her breath.

Laughter.

Where? He turned abruptly, and collapsed internally. The computer was still on the desk and it was on.

_No..._

The laughter stopped and Red John's voice spoke again.

"Hello, Agents! I'm sorry about Danniella, Wayne, she was never supposed to use that knife on anyone but Patrick.

"And speaking of the devil himself: Happy Anniversary, Mr. Jane! I forgot to say that earlier. I just wanted you to know that you've just killed the beautiful Agent Teresa Lisbon. I'm sorry sweetheart. Didn't think he'd get you too, did you?"

_NO!_

He'd killed her. He'd killed another woman. He'd killed the three most important women in his life and he'd just killed his fourth. He'd killed Teresa.

Red John must have seen his face and started laughing again.

Lisbon pulled her gun from its holster and almost mechanically, shot the computer, destroying it, killing the laughter.

Just like he'd killed her.

* * *

**EDITED: 4/20**


	9. Class Three

**I know, I know. Its been two months since I updated, but that's what having a freakishly busy life and a computer that dies and starts smoking does to you (I tried to help it to quit, but it didn't think that it could get over the addiction). I've been writing this on my phone which just makes everything harder, especially since this is a spotty program that freezes and quits quite often. Also, I'm currently on a road trip, which I am getting my kicks from, and while there is a profusion of tubmleweed, there is a total lack of internet. The lack of internet is a problem since, with the extremely medical nature of this chapter and my not being a doctor, paired with my attention to detail, makes internet research a must. **

**It will probably be one of the longer chapters I will write, since I would like to get all of the medical stuff done in one chapter.**

**Also, even though it seems like I hate medical professionals, I don't. It just happens that when I was in the hospital a few years back, I had two nurses and an occupational therapist absolutely hate me, a doctor that refused to give me antibiotics (which is what landed me in the hospital), and another doctor that blamed my meningitis on another antibiotic (?).**

**On a side note, I have an idea for a story of one-shots revolving around the members of the team. It may be up before then end of July if I choose to pursue it. It will not take place in the Happy Anniversary universe.**

* * *

He lay against Lisbon, trembling in terror. What had he done? She was dead. Red John had said it quite literally.

She dropped the gun, safety on, squeezed him lightly and a spike of pain shot throught his body, bringing him back to reality.

Before he could even finish a thought, a white-jacketed man, a doctor, bolted in through the door.

"I heard a gunshot. Is everything..." the doctor trailed off, his eyes first finding the wall above the bed, sinking to Jane, and dragging themselves back up. He staggered, visibly shaken, and the color drained from his face. The doctor appeared to gather himself, though not quite completely, and approached the end of the bed. He picked up the chart hanging there.

A moment's review had his eyes flying back up to Jane's face and the pallor of his skin whitening further.

"Patrick Jane?" His voice was incredulous.

Jane waved weakly while attempting to cold read the man, a niggling, underlying anxiety making it difficult to get as much as he wanted.

Still, what he got was sufficient enough to have made most people think he was a psychic a half dozen times over at the carnival.

The doctor was in his mid- to late sixties. He was born poor, and raised that way. Enough of an upper-middle to upper class air infused his personal style and movement that it appeared he had had money for at least half his life. Interesting, almost; it was much the same backstory as his own, except for the carnie-turn-psychic versus the poor student-turn-doctor bit. Actually, the man was not just a doctor. A look at his hands, which were still despite his obvious fright, said he was a surgeon. From a hard set to ancient-looking eyes, it also appeared that he had seen some pretty awful things. Maybe a aide station doctor in Vietnam? He knew from personal experience that Red John murders were basically the most gruesome things to see outside of decomp, full evisceration, and crushed skulls. That this man had managed to pull himself together and not flee or retch or feint spoke to his history being full of blood.

Interesting, he thought, the doctor had also recognized the smile. What exactly was this man's history?

The doctor spoke. "I am Davis Stillman, an ER surgeon. I had heard you were in the hospital and wanted to see how you were. I took a break as soon as I heard you had woken up." There was a slight accent to Stillman's voice, maybe Boston? It was faded from time having lived in California. "Like I said, I was in the hall and I heard gunfire. There's also some blood there. Was he here? Did you get him?"

There was no doubt as to whom Stillman was referring.

Curiouser and curiouser, he thought, the bitingly angry but almost eager tone to Stillman's voice said he had experience with Red John. Was this good or bad? He began tapping his fingers nervously.

"No," he said, "It was a nurse, an agent of his that did this," he waved to his body, dripping blood from his hand onto the sheets. "He was watching through the webcam on the computer that's now in pieces over by the window. That's what the gun shot was."

A frown crossed Stillman's face momentarily, "So it was him, in a sense? How long ago?"

He couldn't answer, he'd been out for a long while. Van Pelt's voice sounded from the cot where she was sitting with Rigsby. "It's been about twenty since we came into the room and it was fifteen minutes after we left that we got her."

Stillman grimmaced. "That's a long time to be bleeding. How do you feel right now? Other than in pain, I mean, that much is a given."

"Fine?"

The doctor looked back down at the chart and then pressed a button on the end of the bed. He frowned at something there and looked up.

"I apologize for the apparent lack of respect, officer, but how much do you weight?"

This man was sharp as a tack. That meant he was dangerous... right?

"Hundred fifteen, why?"

Stillman ignored her and spoke to himself, he seemed to be doing mental calculations. He hissed through his teeth, and scrutinized Jane.

"Are you feeling more anxious or confused right now, Mr. Jane?" Stillman asked.

Warning bells went off like explosions in his head.

"Don't call me that!" he cried, trying to shrink back past Lisbon.

"Apologies, sir," said Stillman, his eyes wide, " Definitely anxious. You are experiencing what is known as a class two hemorrhage. That means you've lost 15 to 30 percent of your estimated blood volume or EBV. However, my calculations show that you've lost approximately 28 percent of that. This means that you'll be going into class 3 hemorrage soon. The moment you start feeling confused you have to tell me. If I have your permission, we need to get you into surgery now, and set up with a blood transfusion. Do you know your blood type?"

"B negative." So this was normal? This feeling of absolute paranoia and panic? He looked at Stillman again. Now that he knew to ignore the anxiety, there wasn't anything about Stillman that bothered him... except his knowledge of Red John.

Stillman nodded. "Would you be willing to go down?"

He nodded, sarcastically thoughtful. "I'd rather not die, now that I think about it."

The doctor gave him a level stare. "Yes, I would assume so. Will you excuse me for a moment?"

Stillman went over to a phone on the wall, picked it up and pressed a red button. Immediately, he begin giving instructions to someone on the other end. He finished, hung up and turned. Before he could speak, Lisbon asked, "Is a class two hemmorage fatal?"

Stillman shook his head. "No, patients with it can make a full recovery if the wound is staunched."

"And class three? Is there something more than that?"

"Class three is certainly dangerous. The reason he is feeling anxious right now, is because the brain is starving for oxygen. The lack of blood oxygen is triggering autonomic responses that call for him to take some action to get air, kind of like the panic that you feel if you hold your breath too long. During a class three the patient becomes confused and disoriented because the brain begins reducing blood flow to superfluous regions. Reasoning is one of those. It directs the blood to the important functions, like the autonomous systems. It also means that he'll have lost between 30 and 40 percent of his blood."

Before Stillman could go on, Jane cut him off, "How do you know know me? How do you know Lisbon?"

Stillman sighed, "I was the ER surgeon that pulled the bullet out of your shoulder, Officer, I recognized your face. You, sir, I met a very long time ago. I was the responding paramedic." Stillman swallowed hard, "I was the one that allowed you to ride in the ambulance with them."

Jane watched the doctor, pushing through the mental walls around that night.

Yes. He remembered a gentle voice and gentle hands pulling him away for just a moment, long enough for the CSIs to photograph the scene. Trying to calm him. Telling him it's okay because they don't hurt anymore, then releasing him so he could be with them as they were taken to the morgue. Then taking him to a hotel and giving him clean clothes and renting him a room so he could clean up and change without going back into the house.

He nodded. "Thank you."

Stillman nodded in answer and picked at his tie. He looked up again.

"The wound under the belt-thing you've made- how bad is it?"

"It's deep. The full knife blade went in, I think."

"What did it look like?"

"It's this one," said Rigsby, toeing the hunting knife.

Stillman shook his head. "Damn. I've seen enough of knife wounds for one life. Seven inches. Well, I've fixed machete wounds."

"Machete?" asked Rigsby.

Stillman nodded. "Vietnam and Rwanda."

Huh. Impressive.

Two large, heavily muscled orderlies came into the room pushing a gurney. They approached the bed and looked at Stillman. He nodded and they lifted Jane from on top of Lisbon and set him in the gurney. He gasped at the feeling of the cold air against his back and of the sheets peeling away from his skin.

Carefully, they set him down on the rolling bed and raised the side rails. Silently, and a little pale, the orderlies moved to the sink in the corner and began washing the blood off their arms.

Lisbon stood stiffly, sleeping in the chair and then having himself on top of her like that had obviously done her no good. She checked her pockets and then turned to grab her wallet which was on the broad windowsill.

She turned to join him by the door but he redirected her quickly and said, "Wait, Teresa, the note on the tray table, the one covered in blood, will you grab that?"

She couldn't read that unless anything happened to him. There were things on there that he'd rather say to her than have her read from the equivalent of a suicide note. He was glad to see, though, that it had dried enough for her to touch. She picked it up, giving him an odd look and folded it into a pocket.

"Are you ready now, Sir?" asked the doctor.

He nodded, "Yes."

* * *

They had just begun to enter the elevator when Van Pelt stopped.

"I need to call the CSIs in, to start processing on the room. How do I get to the operating rooms?" she asked.

Stillman nodded as they started to jockey the gurney into the elevator. "Once in the elevator," he directed, "go down to the second floor, follow the hallway to the left until you get to the next 'T' turn right and follow that until you see a door marked 'Surgery 3'. We'll be in there. The nurses may not want to let you in. Find one named Emma Georges. Tell her Stillman sent you for Ruby. She'll let you in."

The young officer nodded and ran back up the hallway. The remaining six people boarded the elevator and watched her dissapear around the corner as the doors shut.

Why would a surgeon have a secret code?

"Who is Emma Georges?" Jane asked.

Stillman did not look at him when he answered, "One of my daughters."

"And Ruby?"

"My other daughter. His eighth. I found her in her apartment. We were supposed to be having lunch and she was late coming down to the car. Her door wasn't locked."

Lisbon's voice sounded, quiet, but still managing to surprise everyone in the car, "It wasn't locked, but there were sign of forced entry. The door jamb was splintered slightly."

Jane looked at her oddly. What did she mean by that? Why was she giving him case details? They weren't going to a case, right? The doctor had just told them about Red John. He had to follow up the lead. Do research. Ruby Stillman had been the name of the girl whose death had brought him to work for the CBI the first time, but right now, he couldn't remember her family's names or faces.

Wait- Hadn't Red John just told him he was a doctor and a surgeon? Why was he letting this man do anything to him? He could be him. He lifted his right hand to say something, but spotted the bloody hole through it.

The elevator dinged and they were moving through another set of halls.

He brought his hand close to his face and stared at the hole. He started giggling unstoppably as an unfortunate simile cropped up in his head. Certainly he was no saint, and definitely no son of God.

The orderlies were keeping their eyes on driving, but Stillman and Lisbon kept looking down at him.

"Teresa," he said, once he was able to get his breathing in check enough to speak, "I look like the Infant of Prague!" He shoved his hand up into her face.

She stopped jogging along side the gurney and disappeared from his view. The orderlies, gurney, doctor, and Rigsby came to a quick stop in the hallway.

Of all people, he thought she would have understood the similarity between the wound in his hand and the statuesque depiction of the Christ Child bearing the wounds that would mark his adult body.

His mother had had one when he was little.

Stillman pulled a flashlight from one of his many pockets and flicked the beam back and forth across Jane's eyes.

He cursed, using a colorful colloquialism that cemented Jane's suspicion of a Boston origin.

"What is it?" asked Rigsby, his voice tight with pain.

Stillman did not answer him immediately, instead, he placed his fingers against Jane's carotid artery and counted. He swore again.

"That display of delusional behavior we just saw, along with his heart rate and breathing suggest to me that he has entered class three hemmorage. His lack of pupil response and apparent lack of awareness makes me believe he is also undergoing hemmoragic shock. Which is a fatal condition."

He turned to include Lisbon in his address, "Can you two push the gurney? I will direct you where you need to go."

They nodded and he turned to the orderlies.

"Jones, I need you to find as many surgeons and surge-techs as possible. The more we have working at one time, the faster we can stem the bleeding. Jamieson, get Dr. Stillman. She's on break right now, but she's the only one I trust. I also need seven units of whole blood; B negative. Surge 3. Yes?"

The two orderlies nodded and took off running in opposite directions. Lisbon and Rigsby took the side rails of the gurney in hand and at Stillman's direction, began moving at a jog through the corridors.

Eventually, silently, Van Pelt appeared and took a place on Rigsby's side of the gurney.

They rounded a corner and saw a set of doors marked 'Surgery Suite 3.' The gurney slammed against the doors, throwing them open. Stillman pointed the three officers steering to push Jane up to the side of the operating table. Then together, they moved Jane onto the table. Stillman shoved the gurney out of the way and turned to the three.

"Normally, I couldn't and wouldn't let you stay in here, but under the circumstances, and the general lack of trust I'm sensing from you, I will make an exception. There are, however, three conditions. You will stay quiet. You will stay out of the way unless we ask for your help. And most importantly, whatever happens, you will stay calm. If not, the individual or individuals responsible will be removed from the room for the duration of the procedure. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Doctor," Lisbon nodded her agreement, Rigsby and Van Pelt miming her in their agreement.

"Good, now-"

"Someone needs to look at Rigs's hand." Jane shifted uncomfortably, causing blood to ooze thickly across his chest.

Rigsby shook his head, "It's clotted."

Stillman glanced and the dried blood on the back of his hand. "I'll have somebody look at that as soon as possible. Now, like I was trying to say a moment ago, I unfortunately do not think putting you under anaesthesia would be a smart choice, seeing as you just woke up from a coma. I will, however, be able to provide local anaesthetic, like Novocaine. I suggest you take it, since I will be starting with whatever is underneath that sheet."

One of the orderlies, Jones, came in, a herd of surgeons, nurses, and surge techs trailing behind him.

"I brought everyone that would come, Dr. Stillman."

"Thank you." He turned to address the surgeons. "Since this is a high risk, high stakes surgery those of you who do not have ER or MedEvac experience for the kind of fast, efficient, and ugly operation that this will be, leave. This man is currently in a low class three hemorrhage. He will also not be receiving anything other than local anaesthetic. If any possible sounds he might make will disturb you, again, I ask that you leave. I will need at least five surgeons to stay for this operation. The other man is in need of stitches. If one of the others would be willing to provide those, I would be thankful. There are seven units of whole blood coming. Thank you. Those of you that are leaving, I ask you do so now. Those of you that are staying, go scrub up."

The surgeons and nurses and surge techs left.

"Now, sir," Stillman turned back to Jane, "Once we get you started on that blood, everything will get easier. I'm going to take off the sheet-thing under the belt and start stitching it up, even before the blood gets here though. It will most likely be the biggest point of blood loss and I'd rather not have the blood wasted. I just need to take a second to scrub up in here."

Stillman walked to a sink in the corner and began to wash his hands and arms thouroughly.

Jane lay watching Lisbon as alternating waves of crushing fear and burning pain swept through him. She was going to have to be his lifeline through this. She often joked that he was a wus and had no pain tolerance, but the fact that he was still concious at this point more or less proved her wrong, yet, he was not fond of needles. As rediculosly foggy as his brain was at the moment, it was proving quite capable of conjuring up the imagined feeling of six needles digging into him. He would need a disraction and Lisbon was his preferred option.

Lisbon was watching him, a small smile on her face, when Stillman walked over, his face masked and his hands gloved, a surgical smock and cap finished the look.

"Alright, Mr, ah, Sir. Apologies. I'm going to begin diagnostic on your side," said the doctor.

Fingers gentle, Stillman pulled at the belt, loosing it and sliding it out from under Jane's body.

He pulled at the folded sheet, but when it proved to be stuck to Jane's skin, Stillman walked to the sink, filled a pan with alcohol, grabbed a few cloths, and made his way back to Jane. He stepped on a small paddle on the floor and the table rose a few inches, propelled by hidded pneumatics.

Dipping the first cloth into the alcohol, he began rubbing it at the sides of the sheet, to wash away the blood that had adhered it to Jane's skin.

It eventually did come away, and Stillman hissed. Blood welled from a ragged seven inch gash and ran in broad rivulets down his side.

"Oh, God." Lisbon's hands came up to her face, covering her mouth. She was a homicide detective. She had likely seen much worse, decomposing bodies for instance, but she looked horrified, guilt flaring in her eyes. "Patrick, I'm so-"

The sound of a door slamming open and nearly running feet cut her off. "Davis," said a nearly familiar looking woman, "There's no blood."

Stillman rose rapidly and approached the woman. "No blood? Trace, what do you mean no blood? No B negative?"

She shook her head. "There's no blood at all. Someone has smashed every single bag. I've called to the other floors and wings. It's the same all over the hospital. The only blood left is whole Rh+ or in the testing labs and both of those might kill him."

"Isn't there any?"

"None. I've checked absolutely everwhere. There's nothing we can do."

"No! He needs the blood! He's class three hemmorgaing and in shock! He'll die!"

"Davis-"

Trace cut off in fright as Lisbon threw herself at Stillman. Van Pelt managed to grab her superior before the other woman could strike the doctor. She couldn't stop her from speaking though.

"How dare you! How dare you give up! I will not have him die now! Not now that I've just gotten him back! You will save him or-"

Stillman seemed to grow larger and held up an imposing hand. "Leave. I said if you couldn't stay calm, you would need to leave. Trying to hit me is not calm. Go." He pointed to the set of doors they had entered through.

Lisbon grew still immedialy, shrugged out of Van Pelt's arms, and walked stiffly to the exit.

Once she was gone, Stillman turned back to Trace. "Trace, we owe him. This is Patrick Jane. Is there nothing we can do?"

The woman turned and scrutinized Jane for a moment.

"There is one method. It hasn't been used for decades in hospitals. Is anyone a B or O negative blood?"

"Cho's O neg," offered Jane.

"Cho's not here, Jane," said Van Pelt, "But, I'm B negative."

"Amazing. Okay, do you have any conditions or diseases I should know about?"

"No."

"Good. I'm going to draw blood from you and transfuse it to Jane. Two or three pints at most, then I'll need other volunteers." She turned to Stillman, beckoning for Van Pelt to follow. "Honey, start your procedure."

Stillman nodded and pulled the tray of surgical tools to him. He stopped suddenly and dragged over a large machine.

"The anaesthetic," he explained.

He poked a button and the machine gave a loud _pop! _and began spraying a stinging mist out of several places it obviously wasn't supposed to.

"Shit! I apologize thoroughly, sir, but you will have to do this without medication."

"He's here," croaked Jane.

"What?" Rigsby sounded confused.

"He's here, sabotaging things. He's trying to kill me, even after he failed the first time," he explained.

"What?" Stillman sounded stunned, but Jane couldn't summon the energy to turn and look at him to verify. "How could he be in the hospital without us knowing?"

Jane ignored the doctor. "Rigs... Rigs, call and get... get security. I want se... security on the room."

He felt overwhelmingly tired suddenly, like something was nagging, calling him to sleep. He shouldn't sleep, should he? It would be bad and Lisbon might cry.

Rigsby looked at him oddly and pulled out his phone to make the call.

"Okay, sir," said Stillman, who was now holding surgical tools, "I'm going to start now."

When had Stillman had time to get the tools?

* * *

Teresa Lisbon paced the hallway. It was not a calm pace. She couldn't believe she'd been ejected from the room. She was worried and she didn't trust the doctors. She certainly trusted Stillman's story. She remembered his face when her team, back when she was a junior agent, had arrived at his daughter's apartment. Supposedly, he hadn't been the killer. According to statements of Jane's she had read it was indoubidably Red John that had killed Ruby Stillman.

But Jane had been wrong about Red John before. The seven that he had had the suspects down to the year previously had all been wrong. Unbelievably wrong. It had nearly broken Jane to learn that Red John was once again eight steps ahead of him. She needed to be in there watching.

His cry brought her momentarily out of her reverie and then set her mind flying again. He was in pain. She needed to be in there. But, no, Rigsby amd Van Pelt were in there, it would be okay. Except that Rigsby was hurt and there was a good chance that a doctor who had been in both Vietnam and Rwanda was stronger than Van Pelt. And why was there no window in this door?

Tears welled up from deep within her, pulling a body-wracking sob with them. She couldn't get them to stop. She was absolutely terrified that Jane would die. She had given a month of her life because she cared, because she- because she... somethinged... him. She had just gotten him back four hours ago, and now he was being taken away and this time it would be permanent. She would not be able to fix it. Doctors couldn't put blood into an empty body and make it alive. The grief pulled her into a crouched ball, her hands clutching at her hair as she cried. She hadn't cried this way since her mother died. It was how she cried for a lost future.

Her phone rang in her pocket, making her jump. She answered it and managed to gulp out a "Lisbon."

"Cho. What's up? Why did Rigsby call for security? Wait- Are you crying?"

Her voice was broken and thick with tears, but she choked out a broken explaination.

"Jane, in surgery. He's got a class- a class- ...something hemorrage. Dying and there's no blood. Someone broke all the blood and he's dying. Doctor kicked me out."

An agonized scream rang in the hallway.

"Was that Jane?"

"Yes."

"I'll be there in ten- fifteen minutes, Boss. I just have to grab her key from the guards and the booking paperwork. And Teresa?"

"Uh?"

"Go back in there. I don't know what you did, but it'll be important for Jane that you are in there, no matter what happens."

He hung up.

Lisbon stood and swallowed, trying to clear the stickiness from her throat. She scrubbed at her eyes with the backs of her hands and steadier herself. She stuffed her phone in her pocket and pushed her way back into the operating room.

There were six surgeons surrounding Jane on the table, each with a nurse standing behind them. In one corner, a woman stood over Van Pelt, a bag of blood filling on the table next to them, a second lay, prepped for filling, next to the first. Rigsby in the far corner sat grimmacing as another surgeon stitched up his hand.

She flew to Jane's side and put her hand on his cheek.

"Teresa. They can save me."

She felt another bout of tears well up in her chest, this time from joy.

"How?'

"Van Pelt has the same blood type as me. Dr. Stillman is taking two pints from her and they are going to give it to me. And if they find another person in the hospital... Are you B negative?"

"No. A."

"That's okay. Apparently lots of people are O negative and that will work."

He was silent for a moment, watching her curiously. His eyes, beautiful and grey-blue watched her, inspected her. They were slightly dim, clouded with confusion or exhaustion or pain, but still held the glimmer of mischief that she was so used to. And also concern. For her.

He reached up and wiped away a lingering tear with his left hand.

Suddenly, his face convulsed.

"Teresa, it hurts."

She returned the caress. "I know Patrick, I know. Why don't you have the anaesthetic?"

"Red John broke the machine."

"He's here?"

"He has to be. Or another agent. That's why there was no blood and why the machine was- nrgh- why the machine was broken."

She thought for a moment and then remembered what she had done for her brothers when they were getting shots.

"Patrick, did you ever take Charlotte to get shots?"

He nodded.

"When I took my brothers to get shots, I had them sing, to distract them from the pain. Do you think that would work?"

"I would do that for her too. Her mother wouldn't let me hypnotize her. Whaaah- What should we sing?"

"Anything? I'll try to follow along."

He thought for a moment and then smiled shakily.

"_Sing, sing what shall I sing?_

_The cat has eaten the pudding bag string_

_Do, do what shall I do?_

_The cat has eaten it quite in two._"

"Where did that come from?"

"An old piano primer."

"Something else?"

His brow furrowed as he tried to concentrate.

"_I've been a wild rover-_"

"Irish drinking songs?"

"It's what I can remember.

_I've been a wild rover for many a year_

_And I've spent all me money on whiskey and beer._

_But now I'm returning with gold in great store_

_And never will I play the wild rover no more."_

Her voice rose to meet his, the lyrics familiar to her.

_"And it's no, nay, never_

_No, nay, never, no more,_

_And I'll play the wild rover_

_No, never, no more._

_"I went into an alehouse I used to frequent_

_And I told the land la-argh-ady me money was spent._

_I asked her for credit, she answered me nay,_

_She said 'A customs like yours I could have any day.'_

_"And it's no, nay, never_

_No, nay, never, no more_

_And I'll play a wild rover_

_No never, no more._

_"And then from my pockets, I drew sovereigns bright_

_And the land lady's eyes opened wide with delight._

_She said, 'I have whiskies and wines of the best,_

_And the words that I spoke, they were only in jest.'_

_And it's no, nay, never,_

_No, nay, never, no more_

_And I'll play the wild rover,_

_No never, no more_

_I'll go home to my parents, confess what I've done,_

_And I'll ask them to pardon their prodigal son."_

His voice faltered and fell off, leaving her to finish the last two lines by herself. She did while watching Jane carefully. He seemed more remorseful than anything.

"Do you want to sing anything else?" she asked cautiously.

"I cannnnn- that HURTS! I can't think of anything else to sing, but Irish songs and they all end in dying."

"How about 'You are My Sunshine'? It's what the music therapists sing as a back up if nothing else works," offered a young female surgeon, "I know all the verses."

"There's more than one?" asked Jane.

"Exuse me," said Dr. Trace Stillman.

She squeezed in next to Lisbon and hung a bag of blood from an IV stand. She attatched one end of the tubing to the bottom and the other to the newly placed shunt in his arm after clearing in with saline. "The next one will be ready in five minutes, don't drink this one too fast."

Dr. Stillman glanced up. "Phlebotomist joke. Everyone says they are vampires, so some of them have fun with the title. She cackles sometimes."

The young surgeon spoke again. "Sir, if you'd like?"

"Go ahead," said Jane.

That was how Cho found them fifteen minutes later, an entire OR full of people singing children's songs, Van Pelt maybe a little slowly for the three pints of blood she had given to Jane.

"Boss?"

Lisbon looked up from Jane and saw Cho.

"Thank goodness. Cho, they figured it out. They are taking blood from people with compatible blood types and giving it to him. You are O negative, right?"

"Yes." He looked frankly at Trace. "Will drug use as a teen cause any problems with my blood for him?"

Trace regarded him curiously. "No, so long as you haven't used any recently."

"Good. Can I continue with my paperwork?"

"Yes. Have you used recently?"

"The only thing I've taken stronger than cough medicine since before I joined the military was perscription pain killers after I was hit by a car a couple years back."

He helped Van Pelt to another chair and then returned, rolling up his sleeve for Trace, and balancing the folder of papers on his knee.

* * *

Jane had just been started on the first unit of Cho's blood when one of the surgeons announced,

"I'm all done here. Can I help anyone?"

The other five surgeons glanced at each other's progress.

"No, I think we are all good here, yes?" said Stillman. "Wait," he continued, spotting something, "Can you get his hand?"

The surgeon looked at Jane's palm. "Yup."

His nurse handed him another needle, already threaded.

Soon, another two surgeons finished, followed by the first again, then the fourth and fifth finished.

Stillman finished a few minutes later.

"Thank you, everybody. You have just done a great service to many people. You can go and wash up. I'll make sure this is reflected in your paychecks," he said.

The surgeons and the nurses assisting them nodded and wandered out the door, looking exhausted.

Stillman stepped back, peeled off his gloves and pulled down his mask.

"How are you doing, sir?"

"Call me Jane. And fine. Much better than I was earlier. I still feel like someone ran me over with a combine, blades and all."

"Interesting analogy. It's to be expected though. You went through serious surgery without anaesthetic. I'll put you on some pain killer in an hour or so. If you don't mind, I'm going to drive to the next hospital to see if I can't find those two units of whole blood I want you to have. You will stay in the OR until I return with the blood."

He turned to Trace. "Sweet, will you make sure a single room is available and that there's a cot in it?"

She nodded and he left. Trace turned to Lisbon and Jane. "I'll find a change of clothes for you, Agent Lisbon. Are you okay with scrubs if that's what it has to be?"

Lisbon nodded, then looked down at an odd noise. Jane was asleep and snoring softly, his head tilted to the side. A momentary flutter of panic gripped her.

"Is he back-?"

"No," Trace cut her off, "he's sleeping normally. Pain like that is exhausting. If he wakes up retching, it's from the pain. Let him sleep. If he stops snoring or gets fretful, wake him up. If anything happens, call me."

She pulled a business card out of a pocket and handed it to Lisbon. "On the back's my personal number, but I'll answer any."

Trace left.

Lisbon looked up at her team, sprawled across the room. Cho had found an actual table on which to do his paper work, but he looked tired after giving two pints of blood. He kept running his hand over his face. Rigsby and Van Pelt were in a corner, he standing behind her chair, keeping her upright.

Lisbon blinked, thinking. "Rigs," she said slowly, "if you pull the bloody sheet off the gurney, you and Van Pelt can lay there. No, I don't care at the moment," she added, seeing Rigsby's stunned face.

He touched Van Pelt's shoulder to make sure she was okay and moved to the gurney to follow Lisbon's suggestion. He shambled back and lead Van Pelt to the gurney.

Rigsby didn't lay down, though. He grabbed Van Pelt's chair and dragged it over for Lisbon to sit in, which she did greatfully, before returning to the gurney and climbing in next to Van Pelt.

Lisbon adjusted her chair slightly and took Jane's uninjured hand in her own.

As she watched Jane sleep the peaceful, undreaming rest of the truly exhausted, she too drifted into her own dreamless sleep.

* * *

**Aha! Here we are at the end of the very very long surgery chapter (six and a half thousand words). Don't worry, the story's not done, not by a long shot. Those last two lines that Lisbon sung of 'Wild Rover' go: "And when they've caressed me as oft times before/I'll play the wild rover no never, no more."**

**Please tell me you got the symbolism of that. Please, oh, please tell me you got the symbolism of me making it so the only song Jane could really remember was a song about a con man/gambler giving up his ways and returning home to the people that love him and always forgive him?**

**I'll try to be more timely with my next update. It should be marginally easier without the research I did.**

**Anyway! Review, or PM me if you spot any horrible typos or wierd random commas or 'x's. I'll fix'em.**

**Thank you!**


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